mm* 


Tillicum  Tales 


BY 


The 
Seattle  Writers'  Club 


ILLUSTRATED 

BY 

ORIGINAL  DRAWINGS 

AND 

PHOTOGRAPHS 


SEATTLE 

LOWMAN   &    HANFORD 
IQ07 


Copyrighted  1907  by 

FLORA  HUNTLEY, 

President  Seattle  Writers'  Club. 


.Ui 


Contents 


PAGE 

Laying  the  Ghost Elizabeth  C.  Daugherty  9 

A  Gordian  Knot Sarah  Pratt  Carr  23 

Gulls Emma  Parsons  Josenhans  37 

Northbound  by  Night Gordon  Houghton  55 

Under  the  Flatiron Flora  Huntley  67 

The  Chief's  Counterplot Edith  Allen  Jordan  81 

A  Matrimonial  Epidemic  at  Skookum 

F.  Roney  Weir  91 

The  Duchess  of  Rattlesnake  Prairie 

Florence  Martin  Eastland  107 

A  Letter  to  Cecilia Mabel  Vollintine  McGill  119 

Five  Dollars Francette  Maring  131 

The  Taming  of  the  Barons.. -.Cora  Chase  Charlton  139 

Under  the  Tricolor Frances  K.  Byers  177 

A  Maker  of  Violins Kathryne  Wilson  191 

An  Extenuating  Circumstance....  E.  Adelia  Low  207 

Ye  Tithe  Mint  and  Rue.... Emma  B.  Edwards  219 

On  the  Edge  of  Death  Valley A.  M.  Walden  237 

The  Recoil  of  Circumstance 

Florence  Maude  Farrer  251 

A  Doubtful  Nationality Ellie  Mills  Lee  267 

Old  Bill's  Awkward   Squad 

Alice  Harriman-Browne  283 

The  Burglar's  Dilemma....William  Douglas  Johns  299 


Laying  the  Ghost 

BY 
ELIZABETH  C.  DAUGHERTY 


• 


"The  tide  coming  in. 


Laying  the  Ghost 


1 1  K  fame  of  Priest  Hart  as  an  exorcist 
reached  over  more  than  ten  parishes. 
There  were  more  than  a  hundred  witnesses 
of  that  "driving  out"  but  not  all  were  equally 
able  to  give  evidence;  for  it  is  unreasonable  to 
assert  that  those  who  were  lying  down  could  see 
as  much  as  those  who  were  standing  on  them. 

Yet  every  one  insisted  on  giving  a  full  ac 
count  with  many  details  of  various  incidents  that 
did  not  occur.  Priest  Hart  never  would  set  them 
right  but  always  got  mad  as  fire  whenever  the 
subject  was  mentioned. 

That  is  the  reason  I  take  it  upon  me  to  duly 
set  forth  what  really  did  take  place;  also  to  re 
late  the  circumstance — because  I  think  it  ought 
to  be  told — how  he,  for  it  was  a  male  ghost,  came 
to  be  disembodied. 

In  life  Tim  was  a  grazier;  and  that  rich! 
He  had  horses  and  cattle,  fields  and  meadows, 
beside  wealth  of  potatoes  and  garden  truck  ga 
lore.  He  lived  in  a  palace  by  the  sea — that  is,  it 
was  a  palace  before  it  was  burned  by  the  mur 
dering  French. 

Its  name  was  Palmerstown.  The  old  towers, 
covered  by  ivy,  still  stood  up  grandly,  and  could 
be  seen  as  far  out  to  sea  as  the  Three  Stags  of 

9 


Titticum  Tales 

Broadhaven.  They  were  the  landmark  to  the 
herring  fleet  when  they  came  in  from  the  deep 
sea  fishing,  Tim's  boats  in  the  lead. 

The  great  kitchen,  the  servants'  quarters,  and 
the  stables  were  uninjured  by  the  fire,  and  af 
forded  ample  room  for  Tim  and  his  helpers.  The 
Palmers  had  built  a  new  Palmerstown  farther 
inland,  and  Tim  had  a  lease  on  the  old  place. 

He  had  neither  chick  nor  child,  being  a  bach 
elor,  but  his  brother  Donald,  and  his  niece  Kathy 
lived  with  him.  Donald  wasn't  of  much  use,  un 
less  it  were  to  drink  up  any  whiskey  that  might 
be  left  over.  But  Kathy!  Every  one  loved  to 
have  her  near;  she  was  so  gay,  so  bright,  so  kind, 
and  so  good  looking.  A  true  type  of  that  beauty 
which  makes  the  west  coast  of  Ireland  famous. 

Tim  always  said  she  was  to  have  all  he  had  to 
leave,  even  to  the  keeping  of  her  old  father,  Don 
ald.  It  was  usually  said  that  she  had  a  fairy 
godmother;  but  her  finest  gifts  could  not  equal 
the  fact  that  Kathy  was  beautiful,  young,  rich, 
and  lived  in  Ireland.  It  goes  without  saying 
that  such  a  girl  was  engaged  to  be  married  and 
the  course  of  true  love  was  running  very  smooth 
between  her  and  Jamie  More,  when  one  woeful 
day,  Tim — poor  old  Tim — went  down  in  the  base 
ment  and  hung  himself  to  one  of  the  great  beams 
that  supported  the  floor  above. 

Such  an  act  was  incomprehensible !  An  Irish 
man!  A  good  Catholic  to  boot!  Breaking  into 
his  own  house  of  life  and  laying  violent  hands 
upon  himself!  Had  he  gone  somewhere  else  to 
do  it — but  right  under  the  kitchen,  the  main  liv- 

10 


(,'//o.v/ 

ing  room,  and  right  over  the  big  potato  bin,  noth 
ing  less;  and  no  one  able  to  get  a  bite  to  eat  or 
mix  a  drop  of  drink  without  going  down  there 
after  it!  It  was  not  like  his  good  heart. 

There  were  the  vaults  under  the  haunted 
towers  where  the  wicked  old  Palmers  used  to 
serve  out  their  enemies.  Why  couldn't  he  have 
gone  there?  He  might  have  walked  his  fill,  and 
added  his  pipe  to  the  screeching  that  always 
arose  when  the  winds  were  high.  He  must  have 
known  he  would  not  be  allowed  to  rest,  going  off 
as  he  did  without  making  a  will,  and  all  uncon- 
fessed  and  unabsolved. 

Never  since  a  French  man-of-war  entered 
Sligo  Bay  and  shelled  Palmerstown,  had  there 
been  such  a  commotion.  The  schoolmaster,  the 
clerk,  the  sexton,  as  well  as  every  neighbor  who 
wished  to  show  respect  for  Tim,  came  early  and 
stayed  late.  They  waked  him  until  they  were  all 
"dacently"  laid  under  the  table.  They  went 
three  together  down  the  stairs  to  get  provisions, 
and  the  first  going  down  and  the  last  coming 
back  were  always  in  a  dreadful  twither,  for  there 
was  no  knowing  what  might  be  reaching  for  the 
calves  of  their  legs. 

There  was  a  question  connected  with  Tim's 
walking,  that  stirred  the  minds  of  Donald  and 
his  master  of  ceremonies.  How  was  he  to  find 
his  clothes?  Cold  shivers  came  and  went  at 
the  thought  of  hands  feeling  around  the  walls, 
and  maybe  catching  at  their  own  habiliments. 
At  last  a  bright  thought  suggested  that  he  would 
begin  where  he  left  off.  So  they  hung  the  chain, 

11 


Tillicum  Tales 

the  rope,  and  the  good  fustian  suit,  together  with 
his  cap  and  wig,  on  the  hook  from  which  he  was 
lifted  that  sorrowful  day. 

Donald  was  now  master.  He  set  his  bonnet 
in  a  different  way  from  anything  Tim  had  done. 
He  put  on  more  airs  than  the  Palmer  himself, 
and  when  Jamie  More,  flying  on  the  wings  of 
love,  came  to  comfort  Kathy  he  forbade  him  the 
house  and  told  him  he  was  no  match  for  Katha 
rine.  He  set  everybody  grinning  by  gravely  an 
nouncing  that  he  intended  to  take  a  second  wife 
and  expected  to  raise  a  large  family.  The  or 
derly,  decent  household  kept  by  Tim  didn't  know 
itself  under  Donald.  He  aggravated  Priest  Hart 
by  cutting  off  the  dole  Tim  had  weekly  given  to 
the  poor,  and  in  a  few  days  accomplished  more 
of  meanness  and  extravagance  than  Tim  had 
done  in  a  lifetime.  He  would  have  liked  to  cur 
tail  the  masses  for  Tim  but  a  wholesome  fear  of 
Priest  Hart  and  a  dread  of  ghosts  restrained 
him. 

This  was  the  state  of  affairs  when  our  cousin 
Mary  came  over  from  Dromore.  She  came  in 
her  father's  new  cart,  bringing  a  sack  of  pota 
toes,  and  a  pat  of  butter  of  her  own  churning, 
forby  a  jug  of  buttermilk.  Our  mother  was  a 
widow  and  the  bit  and  sup  were  hard  to  come 
by. 

Mary  was  a  large,  strong,  active  girl  with  a 
fine  red  head  and  eyes  as  blue  as  a  glede's.  She 
was  like  a  breath  from  the  sea  on  a  summer  day. 
The  first  thing  she  asked  was: 

12 


Laying  the  Ghost 

"Has  Tim  walked  yet?  They're  talking  of 
nothing  else  at  Dromore,  and  they're  saying  what 
a  poor  creature  young  More  is  to  allow  himself 
to  be  choused  out  of  his  sweetheart  like  that." 

"Young  More  and  Katliy  will  dree  their 
weird,  an'  tak  the  bitter  along  with  the  sweet, 
like  ither  folk,"  said  mother. 

"No,  no,  don't  talk  like  that,  Aunt  Biddy,  I'll 
never  believe  true  love  can  be  turned  from  its 
course  so  easily — not,  at  least,  while  I'm  to  the 
fore." 

"Ye'll  not  be  playing  ony  pi  5 skies,  Mary?" 

"Sure  not,  Aunt  Biddy;  I'll  be  as  steady  as 
old  time." 

In  the  evening  Mary  proposed  that  we  all  go 
to  the  towers.  Our  mother  shrank  into  herself 
and  utterly  refused,  and  it  was  against  her  will 
that  little  Biddy  and  I  went. 

I  soon  saw  that  Mary  had  some  plan  in  her 
mind  for  she  loitered  on  the  sands  under  the  plea 
of  seeing  the  sun  set  and  then  stood  with  her  back 
to  it,  looking  inland.  I  knew  she  was  waiting 
for  Jamie  More,  who  belonged  to  the  constabu 
lary,  lie  looked  very  handsome  in  his  uniform 
and  came  to  us  as  soon  as  he  was  off  duty.  Mary 
sent  me  and  my  little  sister  away  to  play  with 
the  other  children  who  were  running  up  and 
down  the  sands  and  shooting  pebbles  into  the 
•ea 

AVhen  she  cried  to  us  to  come  on,  she  and 
Jamie  were  going  up  the  long  slope  to  the  towers. 
Before  we  finally  came  up  with  them  they  \ven- 
standing  by  the  locked  and  barred  outside  door 

13 


Tillicum  Tales 

of  the  basement  that  was  under  the  kitchen;  be 
yond  were  the  cellars  under  the  servants'  quar 
ter  and  farther  on  were  the  vaults  under  the 
ruined  towers. 

We  all  went  together  to  the  kitchen  entrance, 
where  we  parted,  Jamie  not  being  allowed  to 
come  in.  We  found  a  number  of  people  sitting 
by  the  peat  fire.  The  schoolmaster  was  telling 
a  story  of  Brian  Borue.  Kathy  was  sitting 
apart  from  the  rest  in  the  shadows  for  the  can 
dles  were  not  yet  lighted.  Mary  went  over  to 
her  and  they  whispered  together.  Biddy  and  I 
went  to  the  fire  where  we  found  a  stool  and  both 
sat  down. 

I  don't  know  how  long  we  had  listened  to  the 
master,  who  had  got  through  the  story  and  was 
disputing  with  the  clerk  about  the  site  of  Tara's 
Hall,  when  a  slight  jar  made  the  glasses  on  the 
table  rattle.  Every  one  started  up  and  looked 
at  each  other. 

"It's  the  sea  breaking  in  at  Downpatriek !" 
said  the  schoolmaster,  going  to  the  window  and 
looking  out,  "The  tide  is  coming  in  like  a  troop 
of  white  horses." 

Again  there  was  a  jar  that  made  the  kitchen 
quiver  in  all  its  timbers,  and  there  was  also  the 
distinct  rattle  of  a  chain.  A  woman  pouring  out- 
tea,  kept  on  pouring,  until  the  cup  running  over, 
began  to  fill  her  shoes.  Donald  took  the  whis 
key  bottle  and  going  into  the  pantry  turned  it 
up  and  drank  it  out  to  the  last  drop,  then  he 
came  to  me  and  said : 

14 


tJlC   (I/Hist 

"Run  away,  my  little  man,  and  bring  Priest 
Hart." 

I  had  not  been  gone  mam-  minutes,  but  when 
I  returned  with  the  priest  there  was  scarcely 
standing  room  in  the  kitchen.  The  fishing  vil 
lage  and  the  coast-guard  station  were  emptied 
into  it  The  noise  in  the  basement  was  some 
thing  to  terrify. 

A  man  was  trying  to  light  a  candle  by  pok 
ing  it  into  the  glowing  embers  of  the  peat,  but 
he  only  succeeded  in  melting  the  tallow.  As  he 
rose  up,  quaking,  an  elbow  knocked  it  out  of  his 
hand,  and  a  foot  promptly  made  a  greasy  smudge 
of  it  on  the  hearth.  The  priest  took  a  piece  of 
paper  from  his  pocket,  made  a  spill  and  lighted 
another  candle. 

"Why  are  ye  stamping  round  here  like  Bulks 
of  Bashan  while  thieves  carry  everything  away 
from  the  basement?" 

"The  outside  door  is  locked  and  barred;  any 
one  going  into  the  basement  would  have  to  pass 
through  tli is  room,  Your  Reverence,"  said  Don 
ald. 

"I'm  not  so  sure  of  that,  Ragan,"  turning 
to  a  man  of  great  strength  and  courage,  "go  to 
the  outside  door  and  see  if  it  is  really  fast." 

"Fayther,  I  think  I  have  inimies  out  there." 

"Jesus  Christ  had  enemies,  and  he  met  them." 

"And  phwat  did  they  do  to  him,  fayther?" 
asked  Ragan. 

The  priest  gave  a  snort  and  turning,  walked, 
candle  in  hand,  to  the  head  of  the  stairs.  My 
hand  was  on  the  tail  of  his  coat  and  Biddy  was 

15 


TilUcum  Tales 

holding  onto  my  little  roundabout,  He  must 
have  felt  a  pull,  for  looking  back  he  saw  his  fol 
lowing.  Some  of  the  grimness  went  out  of  his 
face  when  he  saw  us. 

At  the  head  of  the  stairs  there  was  a  niche 
and  a  pedestal  where  a  saint  and  a  candle  had 
stood,  shedding  light  and  protection  in  the  old 
Palmer  days.  Saint  and  candle  were  gone, 
though  sorely  needed  now,  but  the  pedestal  re 
mained.  The  priest  reached  his  hand  and  onto 
this  I  scrambled;  then  I  reached  down  and  the 
priest  reached  up  and  Biddy  was  soon  beside  me 
out  of  the  way  of  the  crowd  in  the  kitchen,  that- 
heaved  and  surged  like  an  angry  sea. 

The  tumult  below  had  ceased  for  awhile  and 
every  one  was  listening  intently.  The  priest  in 
a  commanding  voice,  ordered  the  person,  or  per 
sons,  in  the  basement  to  come  up;  assuring  them 
at  the  same  time  that  they  should  not  be  pun 
ished  for  the  disturbance  they  had  made,  while 
if  they  persisted — .  He  was  interrupted  by  wild 
screeching,  rattling,  and  pounding. 

"Thry  the  Latin,  fayther,  dear,"  suggested 
Donald. 

The  priest  moved  a  step  as  though  he  would 
have  gone  down  the  stairs,  but  the  cries  of  the 
women  prevented  him. 

Prom  below  came  an  uproar  that  sounded  like 
giants  might  be  pulling  out  the  foundation  stones 
and  playing  at  pitch  and  toss  with  them,  mingled 
with  the  rattling  of  chains,  groanings,  and  wild 
cries. 

16 


I  MI/ i  nt/  the  GJwst 

Then  Priest  Hart  began  to  lay  on  the  Latin. 
With  round,  full  voice,  that  rose  above  the  din 
below,  he  poured  out  the  sounding  vowels.  When 
he  came  to  "Exorcise  te,"  something  like  a  whirl 
wind  appeared  at  the  bottom  of  the  stairs.  With 
bounds  and  leaps  it  devoured  the  distance  and  in 
a  mad  rush  reached  the  landing. 

There  was  no  mistaking  Tim;  there  was  the 
long  black  hair  tangled  over  the  face,  the  fustian 
cap  securely  tied  on,  the  clouted  shoes — I  could 
have  sworn  to  every  patch — and  above  all  the  old 
shooting  jacket  with  the  wide  pockets,  made  to 
carry  game,  and  just  as  in  the  old  time  when  he 
used  to  go  round  among  the  poor,  one  pocket 
was  full  of  fish,  the  other  of  potatoes. 

He  did  not  stop  for  me  to  note  these  things, 
but  came  and  went,  like  the  lightning's  flash. 
The  priest  drew  back,  at  the  same  time  the  crowd 
pushi'il  IJagan  forward;  they  met  and  both  went 
down,  big  Ragan  on  top.  Tim  seemed  to  be 
making  straight  for  Donald.  That  good  man 
and  true,  trying  to  get  out  of  the  direct  line, 
slipped  and  sat  down  on  a  bit  scythe  that  he 
had  fastened  on  a  black  thorn  stick,  and  carried 
as  a  carnal  weapon. 

Speeding  on,  the  apparition  came  to  the  door. 
A  boy,  driving  a  cart  by,  and  hearing  the  com 
motion  had  stopped  directly  in  front,  blocking 
the  entrance.  He  said  Tim  walked  through  the 
cart  like  it  was  thin  air,  and  then  made  for  the 
sea  with  very  great  speed ;  going  in  with  a  splash 
that  caused  the  waves  to  cover  the  sands,  and 
sent  up  a  column  of  steam  higher  than  the  Kra- 

17 


Tillicum  Tales 

ken  ever  reared  his  head — I  shall  always  regret 
missing  that. 

When  Tim  had  fully  gone,  and  the  crowd  had 
got  its  breath,  it  kindly  stepped  off  Priest  Hart. 
He  rose  and  shook  the  dust  from  his  raiment, 
and  then  made  for  the  door  as  straight  and  al 
most  as  swiftly  as  Tim  had  done. 

The  women  began  to  make  fresh  tea,  and  the 
men  took  up  Donald  and  laid  him  face  down 
ward  on  his  bed.  A  select  committee  undertak 
ing  to  care  for  his  wound. 

Biddy  and  I  slid  down  from  our  perch  and 
ran  home.  Mary  was  there  before  us,  boiling 
potatoes  and  broiling  herring.  Our  mother  was 
pressing  something  into  the  fire  with  a  poker, 
that  gave  out  a  strong  odor  of  burning  hair  and 
fustian. 

I  went  up  to  Mary  and  leaned  against  her. 
Her  vivid  coloring  and  bright,  kindly  ways  made 
her  very  attractive  to  children. 

"What  could  Tim  want  with  fish  and  potatoes 
where  he's  gone?"  I  asked.  "I  saw  the  pockets 
of  his  old  shooting  jacket  were  full." 

"Just  to  think  of  that,  now,"  she  said,  strok 
ing  my  hair. 

After  a  little  Priest  Hart  came  in.  Mother 
dropped  the  poker  and  putting  her  apron  over 
her  face,  began  to  whimper. 

"Bridget,"  said  the  priest  sternly,  "take  down 
your  apron  and  stop  snivelling.  An'  ye  can't 
control  your  family  let  them  go  to  the  devil  in 


peace." 


18 


the  GJiost 

Turning  to  Mary,  he  looked  in  her  eyes.  "An' 
I  were  yor  confessor  its  the  heavy  penance  I'd 
lay  on  ye.  Ye  ought  to  have  a  husband  and  a 
houseful  of  children." 

"An'  is  thot  the  penance  ye'd  lay  on  me,  fay- 
ther  dear?  Now  sit  ye  down  and  have  some  sup 
per  for  it's  tired  and  hungry  ye  must  be." 

f(I  am  that,"  said  the  priest,  sitting  down. 

Mary  deftly  mixed  a  stiff  tumbler  and  he  be 
gan  to  relax;  a  twinkle  came  into  his  eye  and  his 
tongue  lost  the  caustic  flavor  that  had  seasoned 
it  all  the  evening. 

".Mary,"  said  he,  "when  I  was  lying  back 
there  with  my  head  down  and  my  heels  up,  the 
whole  heft  of  Ragan  on  my  stomach,  Tim  had 
the  impudence  to  throw  the  laugh  at  me  as  he 
sped  by;  and  as  I'm  a  sinful  man,  there  was  a 
blue  glint  in  his  eye,  and  a  lock  of  red  hair 
gleamed  through  his  old  wig." 

"Fayther,"  said  Mary  starting  up,  a  look  of 
concern  on  her  face,  "did  I  make  your  glass  too 
strong,  or  has  some  one  else  been  mixing  for  ye? 
I  scare  knewr  how  much  I  was  pouring,  I  was  so 
worrited  about  Kathy." 

"You  shall  not  cast  any  imputations  on  my 
sobriety,  my  most  ingenuous  Mary,  the  glass  was 
not  over  strong,  and  I  was  fasting  from  every 
thing  but  sin,  when  I  innocently  accepted  your 
hospitality.  Set  your  tender  heart  at  rest  about 
Kathy.  I  found  her  and  young  More  wandering 
on  the  sands  like  two  babes  in  the  wood,  and  I 
e'en  took  them  into  the  church  and  married 
them,  though  it  was  after  hours." 

19 


A  Gordian  Knot 

BY 

SARAH  PRATT  CARR, 

Author  of  "The  Iron  Way1' 


A  Gordian  Knot 


A-WA-NEE  gazed  helplessly  over  the 
•sea  of  summer  millinery.     Her 
quick  ear  caught  ill-suppressed  giggles 
from  a  knot  of  shop  girls  down  the 
aisle,  caught  the  sneer,  the  sibilant  "squaw." 

She  frowned,  and  an  ugly  light  gleamed  from 
under  her  lowered  lashes.  Squaw!  Were  they 
not  all  squaws — women?  Her  fleeting,  sidewise 
look  intercepted  wily  glances  fixed  upon  her  hus 
band.  He  had  walked  a  little  farther  down,  and 
was  standing  before  a  heaped  table,  perplexity 
in  brow  and  finger  as  he  turned  carefully  the 
wire  support  of  this  and  that  "Paris  model." 

"Which  one  do  you  want,  Wa-wa-nee?''  he 
called  to  her  softly. 

As  she  wobbled  toward  him  on  her  high  heels 
a  great  square  of  sky  and  Sound  flashed,  lumi 
nous,  through  the  open  window.  "Me  no  care, 
Jim,"  she  answered  indifferently,  her  heart 
drawn  with  her  eyes  through  the  window.  A 
sudden  move  loosened  her  comb,  and  it  fell 
rattling  on  the  bare  floor.  She  reached  for  it, 
took  off  her  hat,  and,  regardless  of  curious  eyes, 
twisted  her  tight  black  coil  tighter,  pulled  out 
her  frizzed  bang,  and  reset  the  comb.  The  bronze- 

23 


TilUoum  Tales 

brown  felt  with  its  two  stiff  quills  went  on  at  a 
ludicrous  angle,  and  she  jabbed  in  the  silver  pins 
awkwardly.  Suddenly  her  eyes  dilated,  focused 
on  a  dim  object  rounding  into  the  northern  view. 
Log  or  boat,  men  or  posts, — city  eyes  could  not 
have  told,  but  Wa-wa-nee's  whole  tense  body  dis 
closed  a  keener  vision. 

Jim  called  to  her  again  a  little  sharply. 
"Which  one  do  you  want?"  He  was  still  seek 
ing  something  that  looked  as  if  it  might  "belong" 
to  his  alien  wife. 

The  Indian  girl  laughed  mirthlessly,  and 
pointed  a  slim  finger  to  a  white  cloud  of  tulle 
and  blush  roses.  "I  like  that — that  glory-hat." 

"Oh,  that  isn't  for  you,"  he  said,  and  added 
more  softly,  "Don't  laugh,  Wa-wa-nee;  and  put 
on  your  gloves." 

She  tugged  at  them  stolidly,  and  laughed 
again,  the  same  meaningless  cackle.  Why  had 
Jim  told  her  not  to  laugh?  In  the  cabin  far 
away  he  had  always  liked  her  to  laugh.  She 
never  felt  like  it  in  this  big,  strange  village  of 
much  noise,  yet  before  these  white  squaws  she 
wished  to  please  Jim. 

He  saw  her  disappointment,  and  again  peered 
into  the  forest  of  hats  for  something  he  did  not 
find.  The  young  woman  who  had  been  pulling 
out  drawers  and  boxes  came  forward  to  serve 
him.  He  gave  her  a  grateful  look.  She  had 
helped  him  before,  and  she  alone  of  all  the  town's 
saleswomen  had  treated  Wa-wa-nee  as  if  she  were 
human. 

24 


A  Gordinn  K 

"I  don't  see—  — "  he  began;  "the  winter 
things  suited  her  better.  Yet  if  you  hadn't 
helped  me  I  wouldn't  have  found  anything." 

••This  will  do,  I  think."  She  held  up  a  shin 
ing,  coppery  straw  with  a  bit  of  orange  in  the 
trimming. 

"Let  me  see  how  it  looks  on  you,  please." 

It  suited  her,  and  Jim's  honest  face  dis 
closed  his  admiration.  From  far  down  the  store 
came  a  renewed  buzzing.  Jim's  face  clouded, 
puzzled,  as  he  saw  a  slow  flush  stain  the  sales 
woman's  cheek. 

But  Wa-wa-nee  understood.  Fire  leaped  in 
her  eye,  she  was  ready  to  fight  for  the  white 
squaw  who  looked  at  her  kindly. 

"It  doesn't  look  the  same  on  her,"  Jim  ven 
tured  when  the  clerk  had  adjusted  the  hat  to  AVa- 
wa-nee's  black  crown. 

"Xo;  how  can  it?  It  isn't  made  for  her. 
None  of  them  are.  In  her  own  dress  she's  beau 
tiful,  in  our  white  woman's  toggery  she's — she's 
out  of  place." 

Wa-wa-nee's  face  was  noncommittal.  She 
shot  a  longing  glance  at  the  spreading  tulle  "cre 
ation"  and  turned  away.  She  did  not  see  Jim 
pay  for  both  hats,  but  followed  him,  glaring  at 
the  giggling  girls  as  she  passed  down  the  store 
to  the  street. 

They  fared  silently,  Jim  stopping  now  and 
then  as  Wa-wa-nee  dropped  behind,  Indian  fash 
ion.  At  a  corner  he  left  her  for  his  business  and 
she  went  on  alone  to  the  home  on  the  bluff. 

She  halted  on  the  high  porch,  gazed  far  out 

25 


Tillicum  Tales 

to  the  north  where  the  blue  green  forest  swept 
down  the  mountain  side  to  meet  the  green  blue 
waters  of  the  Sound,  to  heedless  vision  a  scene 
ever  the  same,  to  Wa-wa-nee  a  restless,  changing 
world,  theatre  of  all  her  dreams.  Around  the 
end  of  the  island  to  the  north, — that  way  one 
went — home !  Up  there  where  the  sea  wooed  the 
forest,  where  the  warming  sun  lingered  later 
each  day,  there  lived  the  people  she  loved; 
mother,  father  and  brother — they  would  be  out 
in  the  big  canoe  now — the  little  brown  sister,  and 
— another.  She  could  hear  the  huskies  quarrel 
ling  over  their  scant  scraps,  see  the  feathery  fir 
tips,  the  scarlet  hinting  in  sallal  and  blackberry. 

Suddenly  she  drew  the  absurd  hatpins  and 
flung  them  with  the  coppery  brown  hat  to  the 
floor.  Hairpins  followed.  One  she  ground  with 
her  heel  viciously.  With  a  side  comb  she  dressed 
her  long  locks  into  shining  braids,  then  walked 
down  the  porch  to  the  door,  her  lithe  figure  pro 
testing  against  corset,  band,  and  shoe. 

When  she  came  forth  again  it  was  in  beaded 
tunic,  bangles,  and  moccasins.  She  was  tall  and 
dark  and  strong,  like  the  great  cedar  tree  that 
buttressed  the  porch.  She  leaned  against  the 
ragged  trunk,  her  motionless  repose  welding  her 
to  the  scene.  Yet  life  emanated  from  her.  The 
lapping  tide  below,  rustle  of  leaf  and  flower, 
waterfowl's  flight,  every  growing,  shimmering 
thing  in  nature  was  kin  to  her,  incarnate  in  her. 

An  Indian  stepped  over  the  brink  of  the  bluff. 

"Lak-a-wah !"  It  was  a  cry,  yet  her  lips 
hardly  moved. 

26 


A  G&rdfitii  Knot 

He  strode  to  her  with  swift  feet.  4iWa-wa- 
nee,  come  with  me."  He  reached  one  hand  to 
hers,  with  the  other  pointed  northward. 

"No!"  Her  face  was  wooden,  her  voice  hard. 
Yet  as  an  hour  earlier  fire  gleamed  in  her  eye. 

"Moons  gone,  when  nights  were  long  and 
dark,  I  came,  and  you  said,  'No.'  Now  the  sal 
mon  runs  in  the  rivers,  the  kam-ass  is  ready  for 
digging,  the  sallal  berry  and  the  wild  currant  are 
red,  and  Wa-wa-nee's  flesh  is  sick  for  tillicums, 
for  friends."  He  touched  her  arm,  less  round 
than  half  a  year  before.  "Lak-a-wah's  heart  is 
empty,  the  fire  in  his  tepee  is  dead."  He  grasped 
her  wrist. 

"No!  Go  back!"  She  pulled  free  and  stood 
motionless,  but  the  gripping  hand  behind  her  left 
red  stains  on  the  cedar  bark. 

"Jim  is  kit-It  u*.    I ,  I  man-Orloose " 

Wa-wa-nee  sprang  forward  and  caught  his 
shoulder  in  a  stinging  clutch.  "No,  no!  You 
not  kill  Jim!"  She  pulled  a  crucifix  from  un 
der  her  tunic  and  held  it  before  him.  "White 
man,  red  man,  you  no  more  kill !" 

"Jim  is  kul ." 

"No,  Jim  is  good,  not  bad!  You  not  kill 
Jim.  Say  it !"  She  put  the  crucifix  in  his  hand 
and  lifted  it  high  in  both  her  own.  "Say,  it, 
Lak-a-wali  !"  she  repeated  solemnly. 

He  hesitated,  but  her  passion  compelled  him. 
Afterward  he  hung  his  head  and  looked  uncer 
tainly  out  over  the  water. 

"Go,  Lak-a-wah,"  she  urged  softly,  looking 
northward. 

27 


Tillicwn,  Tales 

He  went  away  soon  and  sullenly,  dropping 
out  of  sight  over  the  bluff. 

The  sun  wheeled  across  the  sky  and  glared 
slantingly  on  the  still  Sound;  dark  shadows 
swept  out  from  the  western  shore.  Still  mo 
tionless  Wa-wa-nee  stood  against  the  tree,  cheek 
and  eye  forsaken  of  color  and  flame.  Spiritless 
she  watched  long,  gleaming  lines  that  widened 
from  the  north-pointing  prow  of  a  boat.  Two 
men  were  at  the  paddles.  As  they  lifted  rythmi- 
cally  she  could  see  the  diamond  drops  fall,  fan 
cied  she  could  hear  the  feathered  dip,  till  at  last 
the  lessening  speck  disappeared  around  the 
island. 

A  childish  cry  aroused  her. 

"Be-be!  Little  Jim!"  she  called,  and  ran  to 
meet  two  small  boys  coming  up  the  hill.  "What's 
the  matter,  Be-be  ?"  She  caught  the  sobbing 
child  in  her  arms. 

"Oh,  he's  blubbering  'cause  I  whipped  a  boy 
for  callin'  you  a  squaw.  An'  Jim,  he  see  the 
bleed — by  golly !  You  are  a  squaw !" 

"Squaw!  Squaw!"  she  whispered  bitterly  to 
herself.  She  put  the  smaller  boy  down,  and 
gently  wiped  the  sand  and  blood  from  Jack's 
scratched  face.  "It's  bad  to  fight,"  she  said 
half-heartedly. 

Little  Jim  found  his  voice.  "Teacher,  he  see 
'um,  an'  he  make  shame  to  dat  odder  boy,"  he 
piped  in  brotherly  sympathy.  "But  for  why 
you  wear  Injun  clo'es?  Papa,  he  say  'no.'  You 
look  all  squaw  now." 

28 


Knot 

"I'll  be  no  more  squaw.  I'll  be  good  mamma 
all  the  time  now,"  she  whispered,  and  led  them 
into  the  house. 

It  was  spotlessly  clean,  so  much  the  Sisters 
had  taught  her;  and  it  was  large  and  comfort 
ably  furnished;  but  of  homelikeness  there  was 
none.  In  a  few  minutes  she  was  again  har 
nessed  in  conventional  dress,  her  straight  hair 
coiled  and  topped  with  a  tinsel  butterfly.  She 
bathed  Jack's  bruised  face  and  hands,  tidied 
both  boys,  and  prepared  the  evening  meal.  But 
her  somber  face  did  not  brighten  till  a  huge  box 
arrived,  and  she  opened  it  to  find  the  "glory 
hat." 

Jim  came  home,  heard  the  story  of  the  fight 
without  comment,  and  ate  in  silence,  while  Wa- 
wa-nee  minced  about  on  her  high  heels,  and 
served  him  well,  yet  smiled  inanely,  believing  she 
was  acting  like  the  "store  squaw." 

Later  Jim  took  the  boys  out.  Wa-wa-nee 
wondered  as  she  washed  the  dishes  what  Jim 
said  to  them  during  these  frequent  walks.  She 
knew  they  would,  as  always,  be  kinder  to  her 
when  they  returned. 

Out  on  the  bluff  she  watched  the  sunset  flame 
die  in  the  west.  She  wished  the  boys  were  in  bed 
that  she  might  unmoor  her  boat  below  and  fol 
low  the  silver  shaft  of  moonlight  that  began 
to  flitter  across  the  darkening  Sound.  She 
longed  to  get  away  from  Jim  tonight,  from  the 
books  he  tried  to  read  to  her,  that  talked  a  lan 
guage  she  could  not  understand.  She  wanted 
to  be  in  the  midst  of  the  thousand  utterances  of 

29 


TilUcwm  Tales 

wood-world  and  water-world,  a-lilt  with  summer 
song  and  wooing.  This  language  she  knew; 
could  speak. 

Boyish  voices  floating  up  the  street  recalled 
her.  She  went  in,  turned  on  the  lights,  brought 
forth  her  dearest  treasure,  the  graphophone,  and 
stood  comforted,  entranced,  while  it  ground  out 
"Bedelia."  She  took  the  "glory  hat"  from  its 
box,  perched  it  perkily,  wrong  side  to,  on  her 
black  coil,  and  peered  at  herself  in  the  mirror. 
Round  and  round  she  turned  in  mute  admira 
tion  till  steps  on  the  porch  startled  her,  when 
she  snatched  it  off  and  hung  it  guiltily  beside 
the  straw  just  as  the  boys  racketed  in. 

"Bill's » 

"Mr.  Baxter,"  she  corrected.  She  hated  this 
new  chum  of  Jim's  who  looked  at  her  scornfully, 
and  left  Jim  restless  after  his  visits.  She  hur 
ried  the  boys  to  bed,  listening  perfunctorily  to 
their  prayers,  while  she  strained  to  catch  the 
conversation  in  the  living  room.  Once  in  her 
own  chamber  no  nice  scruples  kept  her  ear  from 
the  keyhole.  That  was  her  usual  way  of  receiv 
ing  Jim's  callers;  he  could  not  persuade  her  to 
appear. 

"You're  a  fool,  Jim!  Ship  her,  and  get  a 
decent  mother  for  them  little  chaps.  There's 
more'n  one  girl  that  would  be  glad  of  the  chance 
to  stylish  up  this  house,  that  would  be  a  Jim- 
dandy  wife  and  mother,  too." 

"Shut  up,  Bill !" 

Jim's  voice  rang  heartily  through  the  key 
hole;  yet  Wa-wa-nee  rose  and  crept  stealthily 

30 


Knot 

along  the  wall,  tore  down  the  straw  hat,  muffled 
it  in  her  skirt  and  crushed  it  shapeless. 

"I  bet  she  likes  some  buck  Injun  a  heap  bet 
ter' n  she  does  you." 

"Shut  up,  I  tell  you !"   Jim  growled  again. 

Wu-wa-nee's  cheek  grew  more  coppery.  She 
picked  up  the  hat  and  penitently  pulled  it  back 
to  shape. 

"How'd  you  come  by  her,  anyway?  You  ain't 
never  told  me  that,  Jim." 

"No,  I  don't  talk  much  about  it.  The  boys' 
mother,  Ma-la-la,  was  Wa-wa-nee's  half  sister. 
One  of  the  old-time  Alaska  prospectors  married 
a  chiefs  daughter,  Ma-la-la's  mother,  and  before 
he  died  three  or  four  years  after,  he  gave  his 
baby  to  the  Sisters.  The  mother  married  an  In 
jun  later,  and  Wa-wa-nee's  the  oldest  of  several 
children." 

"But  how  come  you  in  it?  You  don't  belong 
to  such  an  outfit." 

"As  much  as  to  any.  San  Francisco  streets 
mothered  me,  poverty  fathered  me,  the  slums  ed 
ucated  me.  At  sixteen  I  drifted  to  Alaska,  near 
ly  died  of  exposure,  and  was  nursed  to  life  by 
the  nuns  and  Ma-la-la.  She  was  the  best  thing 
I'd  struck  so  far!  I  bid  for  her  an'  got  her. 
But  she  didn't  last  long."  He  stopped,  and  the 
other  man  did  not  speak. 

\Va-\\a-nee  stirred  uneasily. 

"Before  she  went,"  Jim  went  on  slowly,  "she 

asked  me  to  take  Wa-wa-nee,  and—  -  and 

Good  God,  man!  What  could  I  do?  Alaska, 

31 


Tillicum  Tales 

two  kids,  and  not  a  white  woman  in  five  hun 
dred  miles  that  would  have  me!" 

Wa-wa-nee  heard  him  rise  and  pace  the  floor 
impatiently,  and  her  hand  kept  silent  time  with 
his  step. 

"Did  she  want  to  marry  you?" 

"You  don't  ask  one  of  them  Injun  women  if 
she  wants  to.  You  say,  'Come/  and  usually  she 
does, — willingly  if  you  take  her  to  the  priest. 
Besides,  Wa-wa-nee  liked  the  kids." 

Wa-wa-nee  breathed  hard,  and  turned  gentle 
eyes  toward  the  children's  door. 

"What  brought  you  out  of  it  at  last?" 

Jim  stopped  his  walk.  "I  made  a  pile,  and 
that  brought  me  up  against  men  who  knew  some 
thing.  I  got  a  few  books  and  tried  to  teach  my 
self.  The  boys  shucked  the  Injun  as  they  grew; 
an7  I  decided  to  bring  'em  out  and  give  'em  a 
white  man's  chance." 

"Bully  thing  all  right," 

"But  I  made  a  mistake.  The  little  chaps  are 
doing  fine,  but  Wa-wa-nee's  pining  herself  to 
death.  Money  can't  make  this  city  life  possible 

for  her.  I'm  going  back I  can  send  the 

boys  out  later and  take  my  medicine  like 

a oh,  my  God!" 

Wa-wa-nee's  nails  sunk  deep  into  her  palm, 
but  a  strange  lightness  crept  into  all  her  body. 

"Jim,  you're  a  chump!  Shuck  the  squaw, 
stay  here,  an'  make  a  man  of  yourself." 

"Squaw!"  Wa-wa-nee  hissed;  and  a  malig 
nant  light  made  shining  points  of  her  beady 
eyes. 

32 


A  Gordmn  Knot 

"Damn  you!  There'd  be  no  man  left  if  I 
did  that.  Wa-wa-nee's  a  mighty  sight  whiter'n 
I'd  be  if  I  did  that.  A  fine  example  for  my 
boys!" 

The  Indian  woman  heard  him  walk  to  the 
window,  caught  a  passion  new  to  her  in  Jim's 
voice. 

"Bill,  you  mean  well  but  you  don't  know," 
Jim  went  on  more  calmly.  "If  it  was  your  fix 
you'd  tumble  all  right.  Let's  drop  it  for  good." 

The  visitor  spoke  a  few  words  inaudible  to 
Wa-wa-nee,  and  left. 

Long  the  man  at  the  window  and  the  woman 
behind  the  door  were  silent,  motionless.  The 
overhead  moon  shone  palely  in  upon  them;  the 
pitying  night  whispered  comfort.  But  both 
were  numb  and  dumb. 

Finally  Wa-wa-nee  heard  him  set  about  the 
night  chores,  and  slipped  to  bed.  When  he  came 
her  eyes  were  closed,  her  face  calm.  He  was 
soon  beside  her,  tossing  restlessly,  yet  striving 
not  to  disturb  her. 

The  waiting  seemed  endless,  but  at  last  he  was 
breathing  deeply,  evenly.  She  crept  out,  dressed 
stealthily  in  her  Indian  clothes,  and  stole  into 
the  boys'  room.  There  she  turned  on  the  light, 
carrying  the  extension  lamp  shaded  in  her  hand 
to  the  bed.  The  night  was  warm,  and  the  chil 
dren  lay  half  covered,  their  little  bodies  relaxed 
in  all  the  soft  curves  of  babyhood.  Wa-wa-nee 
knelt  and  kissed  them,  on  cheek  and  hair  and 
brow;  and  last  one  arched  foot  that  hung  over 
the  bedside.  A  sob  caught  her  throat,  and  one 

33 


Tillicum  Tales 

of  the  children  moved.  Instantly  the  light  was 
out,  the  door  softly  closed. 

She  stood  a  moment  hesitating.  A  pale 
moonbeam  fell  athwart  Jim's  rugged  features, 
softening,  beautifying  them.  Wa-wa-nee  gazed 
steadily  but  did  not  go  nearer.  "Good  man, 
Jim,"  she  whispered,  drew  the  shade,  and 
slipped  to  the  kitchen  where  she  set  a  sponge  for 
breakfast  batter  cakes,  that  Jim  liked.  She 
peered  about  uncertainly,  took  up  her  small  bur 
dens,  and  went  out.  One  long  look  she  bent 
upon  the  house  from  the  edge  of  the  bluff,  and 
disappeared. 

An  hour  later  the  moon  hung  low  in  the 
south.  Its  broad  silver  track  stretched  far 
northward;  and  straight  along  its  radiance  Wa- 
wa-nee  was  rowing  bravely.  The  "glory  hat" 
waved  a  pale  greeting  to  the  moon,  and  the 
graphophone  in  front  of  her  gaily  spluttered 
out  upon  the  still  shores,  "Bedelia!" 


34 


Gulls 


BY 
EMMA  PARSONS  JOSENHANS 


'Are  gulls  good  for  anything?'  said  the  stranger. 


Gulls 


HE  FLYER  was  late  on  her  mid 
day  trip  from  Tacoma  to  Seattle. 
The  crowd  awaiting  her  at  the 
Seattle  dock  grew  impatient 
and  moved  restlessly  to  and 
fro.  Dudley  Armstrong,  lean 
ing  idly  against  a  pile  at  the  edge  of  the  pier,  was 
attracted  by  the  nervous  motions  of  a  shrewd- 
faced  man  of  middle  age  who  paced  back  and 
forth  near  him,  a  little  removed  from  the  main 
crowd.  He  appeared  anxious  to  escape  notice 
himself,  yet  eagerly  curious  to  see  each  new 
comer. 

Dudley  was  a  sociable  fellow,  so  after  a  time 
he  accosted  the  stranger. 

"Lookin'  for  your  folks?"  he  inquired. 
The  man  wheeled  sharply  and  cast  a  suspi 
cious  look  upon  Dudley.     Apparently  it  satis 
fied  him,  for  he  laughed — a  short,  hard  laugh. 

"I'm  trying  to  give  my  loving  friends  the 
slip;  but  if  that  boat  don't  come  p.d.q.  I  can't 
make  it,"  he  replied. 

"What's  up?"  asked  Dudley,  interested. 
The  stranger  studied  his  face  for  a  moment. 
"It's  this  way,"  he  said.      "I've  just  come 

37 


Tillicum  Tales 

down  from  the  North  with  my  clean-up.  A 
couple  of  men  that  knew  me  up  there  are  layin' 
to  get  it  from  me.  They've  hung  on  to  me  like 
grim  death,  but  I'll  fool  'em  yet,  if  that  blamed 
boat  shows  up  in  time.  I  agreed  to  meet  'em 
at  the  inter-urban  station,  but  if  I  don't  get  off 
soon  they  may  catch  on  to  my  game,  and  come 
over  here.  That's  what  I'm  afraid  of — I  want 
to  shake  'em." 

"Kind  o'  dangerous  business,  ain't  it?"  said 
Dudley.  "I  should  think  you'd  put  your  money 
in  the  bank;  those  fellows  might  do  you  up — 
such  things  have  been  known  to  happen — ." 

"They  ain't  any  too  good  for  it — but  I've  no 
use  for  banks — too  much  red  tape — I  like  my 
money  where  I  can  get  at  it  in  a  hurry  when 
I  want  it — and  I  know  how  to  take  care  of  it — 
don't  you  forget  that." 

The  stranger  showed  such  evident  inclina 
tion  to  change  the  subject  that  Dudley  asked 
no  more  questions,  but  began  to  speak  of  other 
matters,  and  the  talk  drifted  to  the  sea-gulls 
screaming  and  wheeling  about  the  water-front. 
It  seemed  to  Dudley  a  little  odd  that  a  man  who 
had  been  "up  North"  should  display  entire  ignor 
ance  of  the  habits  of  such  common  water-fowl, 
but  he  good-naturedly  undertook  to  enlighten 
him. 

"Are  they  good  for  anything?"  asked  the 
man.  "Back  East,  where  I  live,  they'd  strip  off 
the  feathers  for  the  women's  hats.  Ought  to  be 
some  use  made  of  'em.  Are  they  good  to  eat?" 

38 


Dudley  rose  to  a  realization  of  his  oppor 
tunity. 

••Some  folks  eat  'em — they  serve  'em  at  the 
restaurants  as  spring  chicken,  and  in  tamales. 
I  don't  care  for  'em  myself — apt  to  be  fishy — 
but  you  bet  your  life  they're  good  for  something. 
I'm  getting  a  good  income  from  'em  myself, 
right  now." 

"How's  that?" 

"It's  a  long  story.  If  you  want  to  hear  it 
we  better  sit  down — sittin's  cheap." 

"Now  go  ahead,"  said  the  stranger,  when 
they  had  found  a  satisfactory  resting  place. 

"The  beginnin'  goes  back  to  a  day  just  about 
like  this  two  years  ago.  I'd  just  got  into  Se 
attle  the  night  before  from  the  East,  and  was 
out  bright  and  early,  looking  for  a  job,  for  I 
was  broke.  I  was  waitin'  for  the  Bremerton 
boat,  hearing  there  was  men  wanted  at  the  Navy 
Yard.  I  didn't  get  a  job,  but  I  got  a  few  ideas 
that  have  worked  out  pretty  good  since. 

"I'd  been  watching  an  old  gull  like  that  one 
tetering  on  the  pile  yonder.  He'd  followed  the 
boat  all  the  way  over,  and  was  coinin'  back  with 
her;  it's  wonderful  how  they  fly — can  keep  it  up 
twenty-four  hours  at  a  stretch — but  usually  they 
take  a  nap  in  between  night  and  day  somewhere. 
Coming  back  to  Seattle  I  was  sitting  just  under 
the  edge  of  the  upper  deck,  at  the  stern.  I  hap 
pened  to  glance  up,  and  there  the  old  chap  was 
perched,  tail  sticking  out  just  above  my  head. 
I  grabbed  quick  and  hauled  him  down;  he  bit 
my  finger,  and  in  the  scuffle  some  of  his  breast 

39 


Tillicum  Tales 

feathers  came  out;  they  were  as  soft  and  downy 
as  goose  feathers — and  it  set  me  to  thinkin'.  Pin 
quite  a  band  to  think  about  little  things  like 
that.  After  awhile  I  let  him  go,  but  I  had  a 
sort  o'  feelin'  that  maybe  he  and  I'd  meet  again 
some  day. 

"Next  day  I  was  down  on  the  docks  again; 
those  birds  kind  o'  charmed  me.  I  noticed  they 
all  seemed  to  come  from  down  Georgetown  way, 
so  I  took  a  trip  down  there  to  see  what  drew 
?em.  Near's  I  could  judge,  there  was  millions 
of  'em. 

"Towards  night  they  began  to  fly  off  in  squads 
past  Alki  Point,  past  Three  Tree  Point,  and  on 
out  of  sight.  It  took  me  all  of  two  weeks  to 
find  out  where  they  roosted,  but  when  I  did  my 
scheme  began  to  shape  itself.  Nights,  after  I 
was  through  at  the  shop — I'm  a  brass  worker 
by  trade — I  worked  on  a  device  I  was  getting 
ready  to  be  patented  —  a  self-closing  chicken- 
house  door.  It  was  easy  enough  to  get  one  to 
do  the  trick,  but  there  was  a  hitch  when  it  came 
to  learning  it  to  work  just  the  right  minute — 
when  the  last  fowl  was  in — before  some  fool  hen 
took  a  notion  to  walk  out  again ;  but  I  got  it. 

"When  I'd  saved  up  enough  money  to  buy  a 
boat  I  cruised  around  the  Sound  nights,  lookin' 
for  a  place  near  enough  to  get  to  easy,  yet  hid 
so's  not  to  attract  notice.  When  I  found  it  1 
began  gettin'  things  together." 

"What  was  you  driving  at?"  asked  the 
stranger. 

40 


Gulh 

Dudley  settled  back  comfortably  in  his  seat 

''That's  what  I'm  tellin'  you,"  he  replied.   The 

>i  ranger  rose,  took  a  searching  look  at  the  crowd, 

then  resumed  his  place  and  attitude  of  listener. 

"Next  thing  was  to  fix  up  some  sort  of  shelter 
till  I  could  afford  to  build  a  shack.  There  was 
an  old  fish-net  I'd  picked  up  on  the  beach,  rotten 
and  full  of  holes,  but  by  doubling  it  once  or 
twice,  fastening  the  corners  to  some  trees,  and 
covering  the  whole  with  fir  boughs,  it  made  a 
dandy  shed. 

"When  my  livin'  arrangements  was  O.  K. 
I  took  wire  nettin'  and  built  two  cages,  high 
enough  for  a  man  to  stand  up  in,  'bout  twelve 
feet  long,  and  covered  on  top  with  the  nettin'. 
Then  I  took  a  trip  over  to  Seattle  after  bait, 
and  to  throw  up  my  job  in  town." 

"What  sort  of  bait  did  you  have?" 

"What  didn't  I  have'd  be  more  like  it.  Talk 
about  smells!  That  boat-load  of  stuff  perfumed 
the  whole  Sound  country — lengthways  and  side 
ways  and  up  and  down.  Had  to  plug  up  my 
own  nose  to  keep  it  out  enough  so's  I  could  get 
it  home.  That  night  I  cut  it  up  into  chunks, 
put  some  into  the  far  end  of  the  cages,  and 
buried  the  rest;  I  figured  I  had  enough  on  hand 
for  about  a  week.  Then  I  turned  in  and  slept, 
for  I  was  wore  out. 

"Next  morning  I  heard  a  little  noise  in  the 
cages,  and  raised  up  to  look;  bait  was  all  gone 
and  half-a-dozen  or  so  birds  pickin'  round — not 
enough  to  swing  them  patent  doors  shut — cage 
had  to  be  full-up  for  that.  But  when  I  looked 

41 


Tillicum  Tales 

to  where  I'd  buried  the  rest  of  the  stuff  there 
was  gulls  a-plenty,  but  not  a  scrap  of  feed — 
they'd  robbed  me  of  my  pile. 

"I  sneaked  out  of  bed  and  managed  to  shut 
one  of  the  cages  with  a  few  birds  inside;  and 
say!  Maybe  I  didn't  have  fun  that  day!  You 
see,  I  meant  to  pluck  ?em,  and  start  an  industry 
in  feathers.  You'd  have  died  laughin'  to  see 
those  birds  when  I  got  through  with  'em — the 
way  they  acted.  A  goose  is  brought  up  to  expect 
pluckin'  'bout  once  in  so  often ;  gulls  ain't — they 
went  plumb  crazy.  They  flopped  'round  in  the 
air  as  if  they  was  drunk — then  they'd  drop  down 
on  the  water — find  it  cold — bound  up  like  a  rub 
ber  ball — go  reeling  'round  again  in  circles — 
couldn't  balance  right.  After  awhile  they  seem 
ed  to  get  the  hang  of  it  again;  then  they'd  fly 
off  a  ways,  and  come  back  and  strut  'round  on 
the  beach  in  the  sun  to  warm  up.  It  sure  was 
funny. 

"At  first  I  worried  considerable  as  to  what 
was  going  to  happen  when  my  plucked  birds 
should  fly  away,  and  folks  begin  to  take  notice. 
Gulls  ain't  exactly  sacred  birds,  but  the  Gov 
ernment  protects  'em — knows  there's  money  in 
?em ;  if  I  was  found  out,  there  was  a  good  chance 
of  trouble  comin'  my  way.  But  I  needn't  have 
Avorried;  goin'  away  was  the  last  thing  them 
darned  birds  thought  of — they  knew  well  enough 
they'd  struck  a  soft  snap — all  there  was  for  'em 
to  do  was  to  hang  around  and  kill  time  between 
feeds.  I  baited  the  cages  again  as  soon  as  I 
could  get  some  more  fodder,  and  this  time  there 

42 


Gulls 

wasn't  no  hitch;  I  had  'em  both  full,  and  my 
work  cut  out  for  a  week  ahead. 

"The  plucked  birds  got  to  be  a  nuisance— 
always  under  foot — and  so  tanie  I  had  to  fairly 
club  'em  off.  But  there  was  compensations,  for 
the  hens  began  laying;  I'd  find  nests  in  every 
spot  big  enough  to  hold  an  egg.  Ever  see  a 
gull's  egg?  Well,  they're  a  little  smaller  than 
a  common  hen's  egg — 'bout  like  a  pullet's.  T 
took  a  couple  dozen  to  town  first  time  I  went; 
the  commission  men  kicked  about  the  size,  but 
they  take  'em  right  along.  They  mix  'em  in 
with  hen's  eggs,  and  customers  never  know  the 
difference.  Course  I  can  furnish  'em  a  little 
cheaper  than  hen's  eggs,  so  it's  a  good  thing  for 
the  commission  men.  Gulls  is  good  layers,  too. 
I  get  so  many  eggs,  sometimes  I  wonder  if  they 
don't  lay  two  a  day — but  I  s'pose  they  don't. 

"Then  there's  phosphates.  If  I  had  the  means 
to  keep  a  dozen  men  and  teams  to  work,  I  could 
do  a  business  in  guano  that  would  make  old  Chile 
sit  up  and  rub  her  eyes.  A  man  don't  need  to 
go  away  from  Seattle  with  a  gold-mine  like  that 
at  his  very  door,  as  you  might  say.  If  he  does 
waut  a  change  there's  Alaska — Cram  jam  full 
of  gulls,  too ;  it  would  take  a  lifetime  to  use  'em 
up — and  then  you  couldn't.  But  it  takes  capital 
to  get  started,  and  that's  what  I  ain't  got — yet. 
If  I  had  a  little  backin'— .  What  gets  me  is 
that  with  all  the  years  this  Coast  has  been  set 
tled  I'm  the  first  man  to  see  the  possibilities  in 
^ulls.  There's  practically  no  end  to  'em — gulls, 
or  possibilities,  either.  If  it  wasn't  for  the 

43 


Tillicum  Tales 

twenty-five-dollar  fine  for  killin'  one,  I  could  sell 
enough  broilers  every  year  to  knock  the  regu 
lar  chicken  industry  higher'n  a  kite;  and  squabs 
wouldn't  have  a  show  beside  young  gulls,  which 
is  lots  meatier,  and  have  more  flavor.  Talk  about 
the  American  Eagle  for  our  national  emblem !  He 
ain't  in  it  with  the  American  Seagull!  If  my 
partner  hadn't  gone  away  and  left  me  short- 
handed—" 

An  oath  from  the  stranger  interrupted. 
"There  come  those  skunks!"  he  exclaimed, 
springing  to  his  feet.  At  the  same  moment  the 
Flyer's  whistle  sounded  close  at  hand  and  the 
crowd  pressed  toward  the  gang-plank.  The 
stranger  lingered. 

"See  here,  young  fellow,  what's  your  name?" 
"Dudley  Armstrong,  Alki  Point." 
"If  what  you've  told  me  is  straight  and  you 
can  prove  it  after  I  come  back,  I'd  like  to  back 
you  in  some  of  these  things — I  can  see  there's 
good  money  in  'em.     You  just  freeze  on  to  this 
wad,  and  hold  the  chance  open  for  me  a  couple 
of  weeks,  will  you?     I'll  drop  you  a  line  when 
I'm  ready  to  come  back." 

Dudley's  fingers  closed  about  the  roll  of  bills 
thrust  into  his  hand,  but  he  clutched  the  stran 
ger's  arm  to  detain  him. 

"S'posin'  you  don't  come  back?" 
"Then  blow  it  in — there's  plenty  more  where 
that  came  from."  Then,  in  a  lower  tone:  "I'd 
rather  you  had  it  than  them,"  indicating  two 
men  who  were  already  on  the  vessel's  deck.  "Let 
?em  search.  They'll  find  before  I  get  through 

44 


(hUls 

with  'ein  that  I've  fooled  'em  once  more.  Good 
bye!" 

He  was  gone,  nodding  farewell  from  the 
steamer's  side  before  Dudley  recovered  presence 
of  mind.  After  the  boat  pulled  out  he  went  to 
a  retired  spot  and  examined  the  roll;  it  con 
tained  five  hundred  dollars,  in  crisp,  new  bank 
notes  of  various  denominations — fifty,  twenty, 
ten  and  five.  What  could  the  man  be  thinking  of 
—he  must  be  insane — or  a  millionaire — to  throw 
money  about  like  that.  The  more  Dudley  pon 
dered  the  more  puzzled  he  became — the  more 
ashamed  of  his  own  part  in  the  transaction.  He 
was  in  the  habit  of  amusing  himself  and  his 
friends  by  giving  free  rein  to  his  naturally  vivid 
imagination,  and  had  to  perfection  the  matter- 
of-fact,  convincing  manner  of  the  born  joker;  it 
had  never  occurred  to  him  that  the  stranger 
was  taking  his  narrative  seriously,  and  he  did 
not  enjoy  the  sensation  of  having  obtained  his 
money  by  false  pretenses,  however  absurd  in 
themselves. 

When  Dudley  called  upon  Elsie  Whitney  that 
evening  she  at  once  perceived  that  he  was  in 
wardly  troubled,  and  coaxed  the  story  from  him. 
Before  he  had  finished  her  eyes  were  glowing 
with  impatience. 

"I  didn't  suppose  there  was  a  man  on  earth 
green  enough  to  swallow  a  yarn  like  that,"  he 
grumbled.  "How  shall  I  explain?" 

"Don't  explain.  All  you  have  to  do  is  to 
good/7'  she  told  him. 

Dudley  failed  to  catch  her  meaning. 

45 


Tales 

"Don't  you  see,  Dud,  dear?  You've  hit  upon 
a  good  scheme — you  really  have.  That  man  is 
no  tenderfoot — he's  a  shrewd  business  man,  and 
was  quick  to  see  the  value  of  your  idea.  While 
he's  away  you  must  just  hurry  and  do  what  you 
told  him  you  had  done ;  then  when  he  comes  back 
show  him — get  him  in  as  partner — branch  out — 
boom  the  business  —  and  our  fortune  is  made. 
Oh,  Dud,  don't  you  see?  Oh,  why  wasn't  I  born 
a  man,  so  I  could  do  things  like  this?  It's  the 
chance  of  a  lifetime!" 

Dudley  looked  stupidly  at  her,  wondering  if 
all  the  world — his  world — were  going  daft;  or 
could  it  be  that  he  himself  was  "a  little  off?" 
Elsie  granted  him  short  time  in  which  to  solve 
the  problem;  she  was  wrought  up  to  wild  en 
thusiasm,  and  rattled  on  at  no  loss  for  words 
or  ideas,  which  multiplied,  even  while  she  gave 
them  voice. 

"I  can  help  you,  Dudley.  Don't  you  remem 
ber  that  little  cove  where  we  ate  our  lunch  last 
Fourth  of  July?  That's  the  ideal  place  for  your 
cages;  you  have  your  tent  and  the  boat.  It 
ought  not  to  cost  much  to  get  started." 

The  girl's  enthusiasm  and  faith  were  con 
tagious.  Dudley  "pooh-poohed"  her  suggestions, 
but  he  listened. 

"And  I'll  find  customers  for  the  feathers. 
Mama  will  come  with  me  and  camp  somewhere 
near  you,  and  we  can  dry  and  prepare  them, 
and—" 

"Gather  the  eggs  for  market?"  he  asked, 
scornfully. 

46 


Gulte 

"Yes,  Dud,  I  will;  and  when  I've  saved 
enough  rug-money  for  a  gown,  we  needn't  wait 
any  longer- 
Dud  had  no  further  objections  to  urge.  She 
actually  talked  him  into  believing  the  plan  feasi 
ble;  and  when  at  last  he  left  her,  he  was  pledged 
to  put  into  immediate  execution  the  dream  of 
his  idle  fancy.  Misgivings  assailed  him  as  soon 
as  he  was  beyond  the  sound  of  her  voice,  but 
he  went  to  work  next  morning  as  per  agreement. 
When,  towards  evening  of  the  second  day  there 
after  he  called  to  report  progress,  she  met  him 
with  gloAving  accounts  of  her  own  experience. 

"You  must  go  ahead  nowr,  Dud,  for  I've  taken 
orders  enough  for  pillows  alone  to  keep  us  busy 
all  summer.  You  see,  I  happened  to  remem 
ber  that  Mollie  O'Brien,  who  works  at  the  Bon 
Marche,  is  engaged  to  the  man  at  the  head 
of  their  mattress  department,  so  I  went  first  to 
see  her.  She  called  him  right  down,  and  you 
just  ought  to  have  heard  me  talk  business.  I 
showed  him  one  of  those  goose  feather  pillows 
mama  has  made  for  us  when  we —  No,  dear, 
I  didn't  pretend  we  could  furnish  goose  feathers; 
I  said  we  could  give  him  something  just  as  good, 
at  a  cheaper  rate;  that  we  were  just  introducing 
our  goods  in  Seattle  writh  a  view  to  putting  in 
a  plant  if  conditions  warrant.  You  see,  Mollie 
had  told  me  the  firm  is  bidding  on  contracts  for 
furnishing  ever  so  many  of  the  big  new7  hotels, 
and  with  conventions,  and  the  A.-Y.-P.  Expo 
sition,  there's  bound  to  be  a  big  demand  for  pil 
lows.  He  called  the  proprietor  and  I  made  them 

47 


Tillicum  Tales 

an  offer — that,  if  they  would  buy  of  us  exclu 
sively,  we  would  furnish  pillows  exactly  like  sam 
ple  for  two  dollars  a  pair  instead  of  three,  what 
they're  paying  now.  That's  the  large  size,  you 
know;  there's  no  use  bothering  with  the  rest — 
we  want  the  best  trade,  or  nothing.  It  ended  in 
their  giving  me  a  trial  order  of  two  dozen;  then 
I  thought  'if  they  see  it,  others  will;'  so  I  went 
to  all  the  big  stores,  and  I've  orders  ahead  for 
eleven  dozen  pillows." 

Dudley  groaned  aloud.    Elsie's  face  clouded. 

"Aren't  you  pleased,  dear?  I'm  so  encour 
aged — " 

"But,  Elsie,  remember;  I'm  not  sure  1  can 
catch  a  single  bird — I've  never  done  it.  If  I 
could  I  don't  know  the  first  thing  about  drying 
feathers — where  on  earth  could  I  put  'em — " 

"What's  the  matter  with  finding  out  how  from 
the  encyclopedia?  Besides,  I  agreed  to  look  after 
that  part,"  said  Elsie,  aggrieved. 

"I  haven't  told  you  yet  all  I  did,"  she  con 
tinued,  "but  if  you  don't  care  to  hear — " 

"Of  course  I  care,  you  silly  girl !    Go  ahead !" 

"This  morning  I  met  Jessie  Evans,  and  she 
insisted  on  taking  me  out  home  for  lunch.  I 
didn't  mean  to  say  a  word  to  her  about  this,  but 
I  was  so  full  of  plans  I  couldn't  help  it.  She 
thinks  it's  a  splendid  idea.  We  agreed  that  I 
really  ought  to  be  getting  the  ticks  ready,  so  as 
not  to  be  rushed  when  the  time  comes;  so  we 
measured  the  sample  pillow,  and  she  went  with 
me  to  the  'Bon' — I  thought  I'd  patronize  the 
firm  that  gave  us  our  first  order — and  I  ordered 

48 


"Here  is  a  sample  pillow.' 


Gulls 

the  very  best  ticking  that's  made — three  whole 
pieces;  and  Jessie  is  coming  over  here  every  day 
to  help  me  until  we  get  them  all  made.  There! 
What  do  you  think  of  that?" 

"I  think  I'll  have  to  hustle  to  catch  up! 
Eleven  dozen  pillows,  and  not  so  much  as  a 
pin-feather  on  hand!"  Again  Dudley  groaned 
in  sheer  despondency. 

Elsie  flushed  with  resentment. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  you,  Dudley  Arm 
strong?"  she  demanded.  "I  thought  we  agreed 
to  go  into  this  thing  together  heart  and  soul, 
so  as  to  hurry  up  the  time  when  we  can  be  mar 
ried.  I  have — but  you  seem  just  ready  to  let 
everything  drop.  Do  you  want  an  excuse  to 
break  our  engagement — ?" 

"For  God's  sake,  Elsie,  don't  talk  like  that!" 
exclaimed  Dudley.  "I  love  you  with  all  my 
heart — you  know  that — but  this  thing's  an  ex 
periment — it  may  not  work  out  as  we  expect — 
and  I've  got  to  live;  I  can't  just  throw  away 
my  ranch — " 

"Rent  your  ranch;  that's  easy  enough,  with 
people  crazy  to  pay  any  price  for  a  foot  or  two 
of  water-front.  I  don't  see  anything  very  dif 
ficult  about  that;  a  man  has  to  take  some  risks, 
no  matter  what  business  he  goes  into.  But  if 
you  say  so,  I'll  go  round  and  take  back  all  I've 
said — only — " 

Dudley  hastened  to  reassure  her,  and  feigned 
a  zeal  he  was  far  from  feeling. 

49 


Tillicum  Tales 

"There's  this  about  it,"  he  said,  "if  the  thing 
fails  you've  got  to  skip  the  country  with  me. 
We've  got  five  hundred  dollars — the  man  said  I 
should  blow  it  in." 

"We're  not  going  to  fail;  and  the  best  thing 
you  can  do  is  to  put  that  money  in  the  bank 
where  you  won't  be  tempted." 

Dudley,  however,  kept  the  money  by  him; 
he  wished  to  hand  the  roll  back  to  the  owner, 
intact.  As  his  mind  and  hands  became  engaged 
in  the  business  so  strangely  undertaken,  he  be 
came  genuinely  interested;  there  were  undoubt 
ed  possibilities  in  it  which,  pushed  to  success, 
meant  the  consummation  of  his  dearest  hopes. 
The  prize  was  well  worth  striving  for;  he  could 
but  try — failure  would  leave  him  no  worse  off 
than  before.  If  he  should  win  out — but  he  did 
not  allow  himself  to  become  sanguine  upon  that 
head. 

The  summer  passed  all  too  quickly,  for  al 
though  the  feather  industry  prospered  it  was  not 
without  disappointments  and  drawbacks.  For 
one  thing,  Mrs.  Whitney,  at  first  favorably  in 
clined  toward  their  project,  positively  refused  to 
listen  to  establishing  a  camp  with  her  daughter 
after  one  breezy  night  spent  in  the  vicinity  of 
Dudley's  'plant.'  Moreover,  she  intimated  her 
disapproval  of  a  young  man  who  turned  his  back 
upon  a  good  ranch  of  his  own,  or  an  honest  trade, 
to  fritter  away  time  over  hare-brained  experi 
ments.  So  Indian  Joe  cured  the  feathers  under 
Dudley's  direction,  \v;hile  Elsie  listened  rebel- 

50 


Gull* 

liotisly  to  caustic  criticisms  of  her  lover,  instead 
of  toiling  joyfully  at  his  side. 

AN' hen  prospects  began  to  be  really  promis 
ing,  the  weather  took  a  hand  in  the  game.  It 
mined — it  kept  on  raining;  the  dry  feathers  be 
came  damp  and  threatened  to  mould.  Neither 
Dudley  nor  Joe  knew  what  to  do  with  them, 
even  if  they  had  possessed  proper  facilities  for 
handling  them. 

This  threatened  calamity  proved  a  blessing, 
for  it  reduced  Mama  to  the  relenting  stage, 
prompting  her  to  suggest  her  garret  and  a  laun 
dry  stove,  and  this  offer  quelled  the  mutiny  in 
Elsie's  heart. 

How  they  worked,  those  two — and  they  saved 
the  crop!  They  filled  the  ticks,  too,  and  piled 
them  high  all  around  the  garret  walls.  When 
Dudley  was  escorted  up  the  stairs,  and  saw  that, 
thanks  to  their  aid,  he  really  had  'made  good/ 
he  inarched  boldly  up  to  Mama  and  gave  her  a 
resounding  kiss,  which  she  gracefully  accepted. 

When  the  fall  returns  were  all  in  the  only 
shadow  over  the  whole  undertaking  was  the 
stranger's  failure  to  return.  Disasters  there  had 
been  on  land  and  sea,  but  Dudley  rested  in  the 
conviction  that  the  man  had  been  murdered  for 
his  money  by  the  two  men  who  had  shadowed 
him.  Elsie  was  opposed  to  using  his  money,  so 
it  was  determined  to  deposit  the  bills  in  the 
bank  to  await  his  possible  return.  When  Dud 
ley  presented  them  the  cashier  sorted  them  care 
fully  in  little  piles,  counted  them,  looked  dubi- 

51 


Tillicum,  Tales 

ously  at  Dudley,  then  shoved  them  back  through 
the  wicket. 

"Can't  take  those,"  he  said. 

"Why  not?"  demanded  Dudley. 

"Counterfeit!"  was  the  reply.  It  solved  the 
mystery. 


52 


Northbound  By  Night 

BY 
GORDON  HOUGHTON 


Northbound  By  Night 


IGHT  had  shut  down  cold,  damp  and 
dark  on  the  little  railroad  town  of  Ked 
Bluffs.  With  the  exception  of  a  few 
flaring,  spluttering  arc-lights  at  occasional  street 
crossings  and  the  twinkling  lanterns  of  the 
switchmen,  no  lights  were  visible  in  the  freight 
yards.  Up  and  down  on  either  side  of  the  main 
track  long  rows  of  box-cars,  gondolas,  and  oil- 
tanks  loomed  black  and  shadowy. 

The  door  of  one  of  the  box-cars  slid  back 
creakingly,  and  a  man,  after  peering  cautiously 
around,  dropped  noiselessly  to  the  ground.  The 
man  wras  Jimmy  Lainonte,  professional  tramp, 
more  generally  known  as  "Denver  Jimmy.'1 
Judging  from  his  appearance  Jimmy  was  a  very 
ordinary  sort  of  tramp.  His  oil-besmeared  dark 
suit  and  black  shirt  covered  a  short,  thick-set 
body  which,  though  deft  in  all  its  movements, 
V«M  gave  a  decided  impression  of  awkwardness; 
he  wore  his  battered  slouch  hat  cocked  aggress 
ively  forward  and  to  one  side,  so  that  it  con 
cealed  his  only  good  feature — a  pair  of  large, 
Hear  gray  eyes;  for  the  rest,  his  face  was  habit 
ually  adorned  with  a  growth  of  black  stubble, 
which,  combined  with  the  coal  dust,  oil  and  soot 

55 


Tillicum  Tales 

of  the  road,  gave  him  a  villainous  aspect.  In 
manner  he  was  cheerful  from  habit  and  neces 
sity,  but  there  was  often  an  expression  of  weari 
ness  and  melancholy  in  his  eyes,  which  belied  his 
ribald  tongue  and  coarse  laugh. 

On  the  present  occasion,  after  muttering  a 
few  oaths  anent  the  coldness  of  the  night  and 
the  excellence  of  his  late  sleeping  accommoda 
tions,  he  made  the  best  of  his  way,  quietly  and 
unobtrusively,  out  of  the  freight  yards,  and  to 
wards  that  haven  of  refuge  for  the  homeless 
h'obo — the  nearest  saloon.  He  entered  by  the 
rear  door,  and,  after  a  hasty  glance  around  at 
the  patrons  and  bar-tender  to  ascertain  whether 
or  not  the  latter  was  likely  to  eject  him  on  sight, 
took  a  chair,  drew  it  up  close  to  the  almost  red- 
hot  air-tight,  and  dropped  comfortably  to  sleep. 

Some  hours  later  he  was  aroused  from  his- 
slumber  by  three  short,  sharp  toots  from  a  loco 
motive.  No  matter  how  soundly  he  was  sleep 
ing,  habit  had  taught  him  to  wake  at  that  sound. 
He  woke  now  with  a  start,  and  looked  about 
him  nervously.  The  saloon  was  quiet.  Over  in 
one  corner  a  group  of  negroes  were  playing 
poker  in  an  indolent,  sleepy  sort  of  fashion; 
the  bartender  was  industriously  polishing  his 
glasses,  and  an  Italian  janitor  was  sprinkling 
wet  paper,  and  sweeping  up  the  cigar  stubs  and 
mud-begrimed  cards  which  were  scattered  over 
the  floor  around  the  gambling  tables.  Jimmy 
glanced  at  the  clock  and  mumbled  to  himself, 
"1:10— must  be  the  north-bound— the  Bed  Ball 
freight.  It's  cold  but  I  reckon  I'd  better 

56 


Northbound  by  Niyht 

make  her  out."  He  yawned,  stretched  himself, 
put  on  a  pair  of  coarse  gloves  much  the  worse 
for  wear,  and  sidled  toward  the  door.  As  he 
passed  the  bartender,  the  latter  smiled,  and 
said:  "Traveling,  partner?"  Jimmy  returned 
his  smile,  and  answered  with  equal  brevity,  "Yep 
— north,"  then,  passing  through  the  swing  doors, 
he  disappeared  into  the  night  towards  the  yards. 

When  he  arrived  there,  there  were  several 
freight  trains  standing  "made  up,"  apparently 
ready  to  leave.  Jimmy  hurried  from  one  train 
to  another,  rapidly  examining  the  way-bills  by 
the  fitful  glimmer  of  the  arc-lights,  till  he  found 
the  one  he  wanted;  then  he  ran  rapidly  up  and 
down  the  long  line  of  cars,  feeling  each  side  door 
hasp  for  the  leaden  seal  whose  presence  or  ab 
sence  showed  whether  the  car  was  loaded  or  a 
"deadhead."  A  careful  search  failed  to  reveal  a 
single  deadhead  in  the  thirty  or  more  cars.  Jim 
my  swore  softly,  and  soliloquized,  "I  reckon  its 

the  rods  for  me  tonight,  and  its  cold  as  , 

too."  By  this  time  the  chill  of  the  fog  had  pene 
trated  his  scanty  clothing,  and  his  teeth  were 
chattering  pitifully.  With  slow  and  dejected 
steps  he  moved  forward,  toward  the  locomotive, 
for  in  order  to  "beat  it  out"  on  the  rods  suc 
cessfully  he  would  have  to  get  ahead  of  the  train 
and  "make  it  on  the  fly,"  when  it  had  passed  the 
lights  of  the  station. 

He  avoided  walking  in  full  view  of  the  sta 
tion  by  making  a  detour  back  of  the  roundhouse. 
As  he  stole  quietly  along  he  passed  a  row  of 
silent  cottages.  A  light  shone  invitingly  through 

57 


Tillicum  Tales 

the  window  of  one  of  them.  As  Jimmy  came 
opposite  the  door  swung  open,  and  a  man  dressed 
in  the  overalls,  jumper  and  cap  of  a  railroad 
engineer  stood  silhouetted  against  the  warm 
light  within,  his  profile  showing  clear-cut  and 
distinct.  The  vagrant  stopped  and  looked  en 
viously  at  the  cozy,  comfortable-looking  interior. 
He  looked  at  the  man  and  inwardly  cursed  him 
for  what  he  called  his  luck.  Why  should  not 
he,  too,  be  living  as  comfortably  as  that  other? 
He  heard  another  warning  blast  of  the  whistle, 
and  was  about  to  resume  his  way  when  a  woman 
appeared  beside  the  man.  The  light  from  with 
in  shone  full  on  her  face.  It  was  a  strong, 
calm,  beautiful  face,  and  there  was  such  a  look 
of  love  and  trust  in  it  as  she  turned  toward  the 
man  that  Jimmy,  the  renegade,  the  criminal, 
who  scarce  knew  what  love  meant,  felt  uncon 
sciously  awed,  and  looked  away,  bowing  his  head 
almost  reverently.  Somewhere  in  his  inner  soul 
a  chord  had  been  touched  which  had  never  thrill 
ed  before.  Vaguely  he  heard  a  woman's  voice 
call  "Good-bye,  Harry ;"  vaguely  he  heard  a  door 
close  and  a  man's  footsteps  running  lightly  on 
the  board  walk.  Jimmy  felt  in  a  dream,  but  the 
mood  quickly  passed,  and  again  he  thought  of 
the  other  man  as  a  natural  enemy,  more  for 
tunate  than  he. 

He  hurried  to  the  water  tank,  in  the  shadow 
of  which  he  could  conceal  himself  to  await  the 
train.  He  had  not  long  to  wait.  A  final  blast 
of  the  whistle  was  followed  by  the  slow  clang 
ing  of  the  bell,  and  in  another  moment  the 

58 


Northbound  by  Xi 

engine  thundered  by,  belching  great  clouds  of 
steam  from  the  cylinder-cocks  on  either  side. 
.Jimmy's  every  faculty  was  now  strained  to  the 
uttermost.  When  the  locomotive  had  passed  him 
he  sprang  dose  to  the  rapidly  moving  cars.  He 
looked  beneath  each  to  find  one  suited  to  his 
purpose;  .some  had  but  two  rods,  while  others 
had  the  rods  close  to  the  body  of  the  car;  finally 
he  saw  one  with  six  rods,  hung  low,  and  with 
the  cast-iron  struts  wide  apart.  He  braced  him 
self,  caught  the  handle  of  the  car  door,  and,  as 
he  was  swept  from  his  feet,  swung  down  and  in, 
and  shot  far  under  the  car  over  the  rods.  In 
a  moment  more  he  was  reclining  at  full-length 
on  one  of  them,  one  foot  extended  to  the  next 
rod  to  steady  him,  and  one  arm  tightly  clutch 
ing  the  strut. 

As  the  miles  rolled  by,  he  drowsed  fitfully, 
waking  with  his  hands  grasping  the  ice-cold  iron 
in  a  grip  so  tense  that  he  could  hardly  relax 
it  to  change  his  position.  Occasionally  on  the 
level  stretches  and  down  grades,  he  was  pounded 
by  an  incessant  hail  of  gravel  and  clinkers,  which 
cut  and  bruised  him  painfully.  Toward  morn 
ing  the  cold  became  so  intense  that  sleep  was 
no  longer  possible.  He  was  so  benumbed  and 
fatigued  that  he  only  managed  to  cling  to  the 
rods  by  sheer  force  of  will. 

All  at  once,  without  warning,  the  brake-shoes 
ground  upon  the  wheels,  checking  the  cars  so 
suddenly  that  Jimmy  almost  lost  his  balance ;  he 
recovered  himself  with  an  oath,  and  sat  up  on 
the  rods  expectantly.  In  another  moment  an 

59 


Tillicum  Tales 

ominous  crash  sounded  from  the  front;  there 
was  a  sound  of  crunching  timbers  and  parting 
bolts ;  Jimmy's  car  reared  like  a  plunging  horse, 
and  then  fell  over  on  its  side.  Jimmy  was 
thrown  violently  to  the  ground,  and  picked  him 
self  up,  half  stunned,  but  otherwise  unhurt,  from 
among  the  debris  of  the  cars. 

For  a  few  moments  he  staggered  uncertainly 
about,  gathering  his  scattered  wits,  then  prompt 
ed  by  instincts  of  curiosity,  he  went  forward 
toward  the  engine.  The  wreck  was  piled  high, 
a  tangled  mass  of  twisted  iron  and  splintered 
wood,  and  was  beginning  to  take  fire — indeed, 
around  the  engine  it  was  already  burning  fierce 
ly.  The  cause  of  the  wreck  was  soon  apparent. 
Ahead  of  the  shattered  engine  were  the  remains 
of  several  heavy  gondola-cars  such  as  are  used 
for  shipping  commercial  iron.  These  had  been 
standing  on  a  blind  siding,  when  the  freight 
train  ran  through  the  open  switch — on  to  the 
siding — and  into  the  cars.  The  engineer  had  no 
ticed  the  automatic  switch-signal  which  indi 
cated  that  it  was  open,  a  few  moments  too  late. 

Jimmy  watched  the  steadily-increasing  blaze 
with  interest.  The  flames  were  creeping  slowly, 
but  steadily,  from  one  car  to  another;  here  great 
tongues  of  flame  leaped  high  into  the  air;  there 
they  licked  eagerly  round  the  stout  timbers  of 
the  car  frames,  consuming  them  more  rapidly 
as  the  heat  grew  more  intense.  Jimmy  drew 
nearer  to  the  engine  itself.  The  fire  had  not  yet 
reached  it,  though  the  flames  were  approaching 
rapidly;  but  it  was  enveloped  in  a  great  cloud 

60 


yorthb&und  by  Night 

of  white  steam,  which  was  escaping  with  a  steady 
roar  from  some  ruptured  flue  or  water  tube.  A 
gust  from  the  furious  draft  of  the  fire  scattered 
the  steam-cloud  for  a  moment,  and,  through  the 
vista  thus  framed,  Jimmy  saw  a  face.  He  recog 
nized  it  instantly.  It  was  the  same  which  he 
had  viewed  but  a  few  hours  before  with  sensa 
tions  of  envy.  The  engineer  lay,  now,  with  only 
the  upper  part  of  his  body  visible,  pinned  to  the 
ground  by  the  projecting  cab-roof  of  his  loco 
motive.  No  human  cry  could  have  been  heard 
through  the  awful  roar  of  the  conflagration,  but 
Jimmy  saw  the  instantaneous  look  of  supplica 
tion  that  flashed  into  the  man's  eyes.  Despite 
this  the  tramp's  mental  attitude  was  very  littlt 
changed — the  other  fellow's  luck  had  turned, 
that  was  all.  In  the  course  of  his  short  but 
eventful  life  he  had  seen  many  men  die,  some 
peacefully  at  home,  some  violently  and  suddenly, 
with  their  boots  on.  Why  should  he  trouble  him 
self  to  help  this  particular  man,  still  less  risk  his 
life  for  him? 

Suddenly  he  started ;  clear  and  distinct  across 
his  memory  flashed  the  image  of  a  woman's 
face.  Again  he  saw  the  soft,  warm  light  shin 
ing  through  the  open  doorway;  again  he  saw 
the  engineer's  figure,  standing  black  against  the 
bright  interior;  again  he  saw  the  lovelight  in 
the  woman's  eyes  as  she  turned  to  bid  him  good 
bye.  Should  she  wait  in  vain  for  the  return 
of  the  man  she  loved,  when  he  could  save  him? 
He  forgot  himself,  the  danger,  the  heat,  in  his 
new  all-absorbing  purpose. 

61 


TiUlcum  Tales 

Without  the  least  hesitation  he  wrenched  a 
two-by-four  from  the  wreckage  and  rushed 
through  the  blinding,  scalding  steam  to  the  spot 
where  the  engineer  lay.  Using  it  as  a  crow-bar, 
he  lifted  the  shattered  framework  of  the  cab, 
and  attempted  to  drag  the  now  unconscious  man 
from  beneath  the  ruin.  He  worked  with  fever 
ish  haste,  for  no  man  could  long  endure  the  fear 
ful  heat;  the  moments  seemed  like  hours,  and 
still  he  struggled  ineffectually;  at  last  he  put 
forth  an  almost  superhuman  effort,  put  his 
shoulder  under  the  lever  to  sustain  the  weight 
of  the  cab,  and  dragged  the  man  out.  Exhaust 
ed  from  his  labor  and  faint  front  the  choking 
heat,  he  relaxed  his  hold  and  permitted  the 
framework  to  settle  back  with  a  crash.  As  it 
fell,  a  loose  timber  flew  up  and  struck  him  full 
across  the  head.  He  staggered  for  a  moment, 
dazed  by  the  blow,  then  summoning  his  last 
remaining  strength,  he  half  carried,  half  dragged 
the  other  to  a  place  of  comparative  safety.  The 
strain  was  over,  and  he  fell  unconscious  to  the 
ground. 

Some  hours  later  a  wrecking  crew  from  Duns- 
muir  found  the  two,  lying  within  a  few  feet  of 
each  other  near  the  track,  some  little  distance 
from  the  charred  and  smoldering  remains  of  the 
wreck.  The  railroad  surgeon  looked  at  them 
both.  He  paused  but  a  moment  over  Jimmy. 
"Dead"  he  said,  briefly,  "concussion  and  proba 
bly  hemorrhage  of  the  brain."  He  gave  the  en 
gineer  a  more  careful  examination,  and  found 
that  though  severely  injured  he  would  probably 

62 


Northbound  />//  A'////// 

live.  He  spoke  a  few  words  to  the  awed  railroad 
men  standing  around,  and  they  carried  the  in 
jured  man  to  the  caboose  of  the  wrecking  train. 
The  engineer  recovered,  but  nobody  ever 
guessed  the  hand  that  "Denver  Jimmy"  had  had 
in  his  rescue.  The  press  mentioned  a  tramp 
"accidentally  killed  while  stealing  a  ride  on  the 
cars." 


63 


Under  the  Platiron 

A  Story  of  the  Snake  River 

BY 
FLORA    HUNT  LEY 


Photo  by  A.  O.  Huntley. 

"Like  a  writhing  serpent  trailed   the  Yellow  Snake." 


Under  the  Flatiron 


T  was  the  hot  canyon  of  the  Snake 
River.  Above  rose  the  bare, 
scorched  mountains  in  the  late 
August  sun ;  between  them,  like  a 
writhing  serpent,  trailed  the  Yel 
low  Snake.  On  a  bar  of  land  bor 
dering  the  stream  stood  a  solitary  cabin,  and  just 
withing  its  shadow  a  girl,  so  utterly  incongruous 
with  her  primitive  surroundings,  that  she 
seemed  an  unreal  vision.  Laura  Curtis,  in  her 
fresh  pink  dimity,  would  have  graced  a  five 
o'clock  tea.  So  little,  and  sweet,  and  dainty,  she 
stood  there,  so  timid  and  appealing,  one  longed 
to  catch  her  up  like  a  child  and  kiss  her. 

She  lifted  her  head  and  sniffed  the  still  air 
for  a  breath  of  coolness,  as  she  watched  the  even 
ing  shadows  stretch  across  the  river  and  climb 
the  peaks  beyond.  Their  rude  curves  repelled 
yet  fascinated  her,  as  her  gaze  followed  the 
outline  of  a  colossal  flatiron  traced  against  the 
cloudless  sky.  She  shrank  from  its  impending 
heat  and  put  up  her  hand  to  shut  out  the  spec 
tacle.  Her  eyes  searched  the  wild  trail  on  the 
hills  below,  and  her  heart  leaped  at  sight  of  a 
rider,  then  sank  at  thought  of  the  meeting.  How 
could  she  withstand  his  pleading! 

67 


Tillidim  Tales 

She  moved  across  the  dry  grass  to  a  little 
clump  of  alder  bushes  and  parted  the  branches. 
Beside  a  tiny  stream  that  trickled  slowly  from 
a  spring  above,  stood  a  rude  wooden  cradle,  cov 
ered  with  musquito-netting  and  protected  by  a 
wagon-sheet.  Beside  it  sat  Laura  Curtis'  sister. 
There  were  the  same  features,  the  same  color 
ing;  but  an  infinite  difference  made  itself  felt. 
Young  Mrs.  Bennett,  in  two  years,  had  incor 
porated  herself  into  the  landscape  and  become  a 
part  of  the  picture.  Laura,  for  three  months, 
had  held  herself  away  from  it,  and  struggled  to 
preserve  her  own  identity.  Unlike  the  chame 
leon,  she  felt  that  her  protection  lay  in  her  con 
trast  to  the  life  about  her. 

"Harry  is  coming  with  the  mail,"  said  Laura, 

"How  near  is  he?" 

"A  half-mile." 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  go  back  home,  Laura,-' 
began  her  sister,  with  seeming  irrelevance.  There 
was  a  home-sick  note  in  her  voice.  "Harry  Wes- 
cott  is  a  good  man;  he'll  be  a  rich  man  some 
day,  when  the  mines  open.  Not  that  the  money 
matters  so  much — but  he's  our  kind,  Laura;  a 
man  of  fine  feeling,  and  still  a  strong,  human, 
natural  man.  When  a  fellow  leaves  college  for 
the  woods  or  the  mountains,  it  means  an  appre 
ciation  of  the  better  things  of  life.  Why  can't 
you  like  him?" 

"I  like  him  very  much." 

"You  know  what  I  mean,  dear.  It  would 
mean  everything  to  me  to  have  you  here,  near 
me.  You  know  how  happy  I  am  with  Frank 

68 


Under  the  r hit  iron 

and  the  baby,  and  yet — one's  own  sister,  and 
our  mother  dead — 

"Don't,  Hattie,"  said  the  girl,  beseechingly. 
"I  should  die;  I  don't  see  how  you  endure  it." 

"You  wouldn't  feel  so  if  it  were  your  home, 
if  those  you  love  were  here." 

"My  home?  My  prison!  my  tomb!"  thought 
the  girl,  as  she  looked  up  at  the  mountains  which 
shut  her  in.  "It  isn't  the  isolation — it's  just  the 
horror  of  the  place.  I  can  not  breathe  here;  I 
should  suffocate." 

"If  you  only  cared  for  him,"  persisted  the 
wife,  "  it  would  all  be  so  simple." 

Laura  opened  her  lips  to  speak.  It  would  be 
a  relief  to  confess  it  all  and  own  the  love  she 
had  denied.  But  only  a  sigh  escaped  her.  Her 
silence  was  her  safety.  The  loyalty  of  her  sis 
ter  for  young  Wescott  was  something  to  battle 
against  Not  even  to  herself  must  she  admit 
her  love,  much  less  allow  it  to  be  discovered. 
She  would  be  misunderstood  and  misjudged.  She 
would  seem  selfish  and  unreasonable,  and  would 
be  urged  to  believe  that  she  would  grow  to  like 
the  valley.  But  the  absence  of  love  itself — this 
was  an  argument  not  to  be  gainsaid.  It  left  her 
sister  weaponless. 

The  girl  stood  silent,  thinking,  listening. 

Hattie  rose,  impulsively,  and  put  her  arm 
about  the  little  pink  figure.  "You  look  so — lone 
some,  dear,  one  always  feels  like  coming  to  your 
rescue,  somehow,"  she  said,  as  they  moved  to 
ward  the  cabin  at  sound  of  the  horses'  feet. 

Wescott  tossed  Mrs.  Bennett  the  improvised 

69 


TilUcum  Tales 

mail-sack,  then  reached  a  bunch  of  flowers  to 
Laura  as  he  swung  down  from  the  saddle.  It 
was  the  sweet  mountain  laurel,  with  purple  wild 
asters,  and  he  had  added  a  handful  of  grasses. 
This  was  the  touch  that  appealed  to  her — that  he 
had  known  to  add  the  grasses ! 

"Oh,  thank  you!" 

She  looked  up  into  his  brown,  handsome, 
joyous  face.  The  hat  pushed  back  showed  a  fine 
white  brow,  and  the  low  Byron  collar  of  his  black 
silk  shirt  revealed  the  muscles  of  an  athlete.  He 
had  a  clean  look  despite  his  dusty  ride. 

The  spurs  at  his  feet  rattled  as  he  stepped 
nearer  and  drew  something  from  the  pocket  be 
neath  his  chaparejos.  He  opened  his  hand  and 
disclosed  a  huge  rattle,  the  largest  she  had  ever 
seen. 

"Mercy!  I  don't  want  it!"  She  put  her 
hands  behind  her  and  backed  away. 

"I  thought  you  might  like  to  take  it  home, 
since  you  insist  on  going,"  he  laughed  skepti 
cally.  "I  wanted  to  get  the  skin,  but  I  bruised 
the  snake  in  killing  it." 

She  shuddered  and  ran  to  the  cabin,  where 
she  watched  him  unsaddle  the  horse  and  slip  off 
the  bridle.  She  spread  a  lunch  while  he  washed 
and  Mrs.  Bennett  read  snatches  from  the  paper 
while  he  ate. 

"Where's  Frank?"  he  inquired  presently. 

"He's  milking.  The  cows  didn't  come  home 
and  he  had  to  hunt  them,  so  he's  late,"  said  Mrs. 
Bennett,  as  she  laid  aside  the  paper  and  made 
her  way  to  the  little  camp  among  the  alders. 

70 


Under  the  Flatiron 

"Shall  we  walk  down  to  the  river?"  sug 
gested  Wescott,  rising. 

"I  don't  want  to  see  it,"  cried  Laura,  "it's  so 
cruel  and  treacherous.  I  can  think  of  nothing 
but  the  boy  who  was  drowned." 

"You're  nervous  over  it,  Laura.  It's  really 
one  of  the  most  picturesque  streams  that  I  have 
ever  seen.  Now  the  view  from  the  point  above 
here — let  me  show  you  — " 

"Not  to-night."  She  shrank  from  the  dry, 
rustling  grass,  the  rocks  and  the  sand. 

"We'll  look  at  the  mountains,  if  you  like  them 
better,"  and  he  brought  out  the  rude  chairs,  with 
their  hairy,  cow-hide  seats,  and  placed  them  be 
yond  the  little  garden  patch,  facing  the  Flatiron, 
whore  they  could  watch  the  moon  rise  over  its 
rim. 

"I'm  not  over  fond  of  the  Flatiron,  either," 
she  said,  half  seriously. 

"Case  of  Devil  and  deep  sea,  is  it?" 

"Two  Devils,  and  both  pushing  me  into  the 
treacherous  Snake,  which  is  more  horrible  than 
the  deepest  sea.  Look  at  the  Flatiron!  Isn't 
it  hot  and  relentless!  I  can  just  imagine  how 
it  would  siss  if  I  touched  a  wet  finger  to  it.  I 
often  fancy  it  ironing  its  way  over  this  valley 
and  smoothing  out  all  the  wrinkles." 

He  laughed  at  her  fancy  and  abruptly 
changed  the  subject. 

"The  ^fcDougal  mine  was  sold  today  for  two 
hundred  thousand." 

"Oh,  I'm  so  glad!" 

71 


Tillicum  Tales 

"Are  you?"  he  cried,  eagerly.  "Mine  are 
every  bit  as  good,  and  when  I  get  my  price,  you'll 
see  what  I'll  do." 

"You'll  leave  the  Snake  River?"  she  ques 
tioned,  not  daring  to  hope  it, 

"I  couldn't  do  that — not  for  some  time  at 
least — and  I  shouldn't  want  to;  it's  home  to  me." 
He  drew  the  picture.  "When  the  wind  sweeps 
over  the  hills,  it's  warm  and  sheltered  here.  The 
snow  creeps  down  the  mountains  but  stops  be 
fore  it  reaches  us.  I  like  to  think  of  the  New 
England  snow  storms  and  the  Dakota  blizzards, 
as  I  pick  the  early  February  flowers.  It's  all 
so  snug  and  cozy — a  little  happy-valley,  where 
one  can  live  content  and  feel  the  very  smile  of 
heaven." 

The  girl  listened  absently  to  his  strange  in 
fatuation. 

"And  when  the  railroad  comes  down  the  river 
— I'm  in  no  hurry  for  it — "  he  added  parentheti 
cally,  "we  won't  seem  so  far  away  from  the 
world;  the  country  will  be  opened  up  — " 

"It  will  never  be  opened." 

"Why  not,  you  little  skeptic?" 

"The  Peacock  mine  was  opened  in  1863,  and 
what  has  been  done  with  it?  The  mines  at  Cup 
rum  ten  years  ago,  and  they  are  deserted;  your 
railroad  has  been  surveyed  a  dozen  times,  and 
always  with  a  boom,  but  it  will  never  come.  No 
body  would  live  here." 

"Do  you  really  dislike  it  so?"  he  asked,  sur 
prised  at  her  familiarity  with  pioneer  history. 

72 


Under  the  Flat-iron 

"Fve  seen  more  attractive  places/'  she  an 
swered  evasively. 

"You're  homesick/'  he  taunted.  "After  a  visit 
to  the  East  you'll  long  for  this  wild,  free  life." 

"Listen,"  she  said,  resolving  to  be  finally  un 
derstood.  "It's  neither  the  East  nor  the  West; 
it's  the  earth,  the  soil;  I  never  could  take  root 
in  it.  It's  that  horrible  wall  of  rock,  rising  into 
the  air.  It's  all  a  tragedy  of  nature,  when  some 
mighty  convulsion  left  this  awful  havoc,  and  we 
are  caught  in  its  ruins." 

"What  a  tragic  little  girl  it  is,"  he  said,  re 
fusing  to  be  serious.  "There!  see  the  moon  over 
the  mountains.  Isn't  it  beautiful,  away  from 
the  busy  world,  and  close  to  the  great  earth !  Do 
you  know,  I  never  care  to  see  the  moon  in  the 
city.  It  seems  out  of  harmony;  but  this  is  per 
fect." 

They  sat  in  silence,  watching  the  increasing 
segment  till  it  rose  a  completed  circle. 

"There!"  exclaimed  Wescott,  with  boyish  de 
light,  "now  let's  do  it  over  again." 

"You  mean  — ?» 

"I'll  show  you." 

He  caught  her  hand  and  led  her  forward, 
stumbling  over  the  dusty  uneven  ground.  They 
stopped  beside  a  mass  of  huge  boulders,  grouped 
in  rude  resemblance  to  a  human  dwelling — "the 
play-house" — they  had  christened  it.  Here  they 
were  again  within  the  shadow  of  the  mountain 
and  the  moon  was  lost  behind  the  rising  ridge. 

They  stood  motionless,  speechless,  before  the 
familiar  spectacle,  but  to  the  girl  it  was  as  if 

73 


Tillicum  Tales 

the  moon  had  never  risen  before,  and  would  not 
appear  again  in  all  eternity.  Fascinated,  she 
watched  it  grow,  and  felt  that  with  its  com 
pleted  disk,  her  tragedy  would  be  upon  her. 

The  night  was  pregnant;  its  details  etched 
themselves  into  her  soul.  A  squirrel  rustled  the 
dry  leaves  and  disappeared  in  the  rocks;  a  wan 
dering  bat  flapped  against  her  hair;  and  a  line 
from  Omar  whispered  itself  over  and  over. 

"How  oft  hereafter  rising  look  for  us 
Through    this   same   garden — and   for   one    in 


vain 


t» 


She  shivered  and  strangled  a  sob  in  her 
throat.  The  touch  of  the  rustling  grass  rasped 
against  her  hand;  she  longed  to  nestle  it  in  the 
strong  clasp  of  his,  but  she  moved  away,  and 
leaned  for  support  against  the  wall  of  rock. 
Startled,  she  drew  back  at  the  hot  touch  kept 
from  the  day's  sun.  A  dwarfed  pine  caught  her 
little  fluttering  sleeve  and  fastened  it  with  pitch. 

Tears  came  to  her  eyes.  Why  was  nature  so 
cruel  here!  At  every  touch  it  scorched  and 
stung  and  frightened  her;  and  he  was  so  near! 
His  eyes  were  on  the  sky,  but  his  hand  reached, 
asking  for  hers. 

The  lower  arc  suddenly  darted  above  the  rim 
of  the  mountain  and  the  moon  was  full!  A 
breath  of  relief  escaped  her  as  their  eyes  met. 

"It  seems  like  turning  back  the  wheels  of 
Time,"  he  said. 

"Would  you  care  to?"  she  questioned. 

74 


the  i •' l<i t iron 

"I'd  live  these  months  since  you  came  to  the 
river,  a  hundred  times  over."  His  voice  was 
very  tender.  "Would  you?" 

"I  wouldn't  live  them  again — not  once — for 
all  the  world !" 

"Do  you  mean  it,  Laura?"  He  came  nearer. 
"Do  you  know,  I  was  going  to  ask  you  tonight, 
to  live  here — to  stay  with  me,  always.  Do  you 
mean  that  it  could  never  be?  Have  you  taken 
this  way  to  tell  me?" 

She  trembled,  but  her  voice  was  clear.  "It 
could  never  be." 

"Are  you  sure,  Laura?  Oh,  are  you  very 
sure?  This  is  a  question  between  us.  You're 
not  thinking  of  the  country — it  isn't  that?  Can't 
you  tell  me?  There  is  some  one  else?" 

"Don't,  Hal,"  she  besought  him.  She  felt 
that  she  still  had  strength  to  put  him  out  of  her 
life,  she  still  possessed  herself;  but  a  word 
spoken,  the  touch  of  his  hand,  a  kiss  to  be  re 
membered — and  there  would  be  a  claim  on  her 
soul  beyond  her  power  to  forget.  "Don't  let  us 
talk  of  it.  I  can  not." 

"You  can  not  mean  it,  Laura!"  It  was  a 
wounded  cry,  and  he  clutched  her  arm  to  keep 
her.  "It  is  not  true." 

She  repulsed  him  rudely.  "I  am  going 
back." 

He  shrank  at  the  changed  tone,  and  the  light 
in  his  eyes  went  out.  His  fa< •<•  hud  an  unnatural 
seriousness  that  made  it  dull.  The  girl  was 
thankful  for  this  apathy;  it  was  less  hard  to 
witness  than  his  pain. 

75 


Tillicum  Tales 

Hurt  by  the  gesture,  and  stung  at  the  quiet, 
decisive  voice,  he  walked  silently  beside  her  to 
the  spot  where  they  had  watched  the  first  moon- 
rise.  Without  a  word  he  left  her  to  go  for  his 
horse. 

"I  can  bear  it,  oh,  I  can  bear  it,"  she  moan 
ed,  clasping  her  hands,  "I  can  live  without 
love,  but  I  can  not  put  love  to  this  awful  test, 
I  know  my  weakness  and  my  little  strength." 

It  was  a  prayer ;  it  was  a  struggle  for  life ;  it 
was  the  assertion  of  a  prenatal  influence,  inten 
sifying  itself  in  this  crisis  of  her  soul.  The  in 
stinctive,  unreasoning  fear  of  animal  life;  the 
shrinking  from  Nature  in  her  crude  and  violent 
forms,  was  a  mortal  antipathy,  which  her  pio 
neer  mother  alone  had  understood. 

Wescott  stopped  beside  Laura  for  his  final 
good-bye. 

"I  shall  not  see  you  again,"  he  said.  "There 
are  two  or  three  weeks  of  assessment  work  to  be 
done  on  the  mines,  and  I  think  I'll  go  up  and  be 
gin  it  tomorrow.  You  will  be  gone  before  I  come 
back." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  holding  her  beating  heart, 
and  pausing  for  breath  to  speak  evenly,  "I  shall 
be  gone." 

"Sit  down,  Laura,"  he  said,  seeing  her  agita 
tion.  "You  are  tired;  I  have  made  it  hard  for 
you."  He  threw  the  bridle  rein  over  the  horse's 
head  to  the  ground  and  walked  back. 

She  sank  into  her  chair. 

"I  think  you  know,  Laura,  how  love  changes 
all  the  world.  This  valley  will  be  less  beautiful 

76 


Under  the  Flatiron 

to  me,  because  you  have  gone.  You  have  made 
it  wonderful.  Everything  will  speak  to  me  of 
you.  I  hoped  to  interpret  it,  transform  it  for 
you.  If  after  a  time,  when  you  are  away  from 
it  all,  you  feel  different,  I  want  you  to  tell  me,  to 
come  back  to  me.  Will  you?" 

She  did  not  speak.  Her  hand  toyed  nervous 
ly  with  her  chair,  and  reached  to  the  dried  grass, 
but  her  fingers  touched  the  cold,  damp  folds  of  a 
snake,  coiled  at  her  side. 

The  cry  was  frozen  on  her  lips  by  the  quick, 
unmistakable  rattle.  All  the  horror  of  the  wild 
life  about  her  seemed  concentrated  into  this 
loathsome  thing  waiting  to  dart  its  poison  into 
her  life,  and  her  reserve  melted  into  a  sickening, 
helpless  terror. 

"Harry,"  she  sobbed,  and  clung  quivering  to 
his  arm. 

It  was  a  call  to  his  very  soul,  thrilling  him 
with  its  subtle  appeal;  but  he  put  her  away  to 
crush  the  reptile  with  his  heel,  pausing  an  in 
stant  to  make  sure  that  it  was  dead. 

The  girl  stood  terrified  and  alone,  not  daring 
to  move.  He  took  her  unresisting  into  his  arms. 
Faint  and  weak  with  fright  and  her  long  self- 
control,  she  yielded  utterly  to  his  embrace. 

"Laura!"  he  implored,  as  if  to  convince  him 
self  as  well  as  her,  "it  is  I — you  love  me,  Laura ! 
There  is  no  one  else!" 

Her  little  hand  tightened  over  the  hard  mus 
cle  of  his  arm  and  moved  convulsively  to  his 
face;  her  wet  lashes  touched  his  cheek;  her  lips 
moved  against  his  throat 

77 


Tillicum  Tales 

"Laura!"  he  gasped,  holding  her  away  from 
him  almost  roughly,  and  turning  her  face  up  to 
the  light.  "Laura,  I  understand,  I  see  how  you 
suffer.  You  shall  not  stay  here  another  day,  if 
I  may  go  with  you,  back  to  the  world — any 
where,  so  that  we  go  together." 

A  light  suddenly  gleamed  in  the  cabin,  and 
a  low  lullaby  came  on  the  still  air. 

"It  would  be  death,  here,"  she  said,  "but  T 
am  ready  to  die — with  you." 

"You  shall  live  with  me!"  and  he  drew  her 
home  to  his  heart. 


The  Chiefs  Counterplot 

BY 
EDITH  ALLEN  JORDAN 


The 
Chief's  Counterplot 


HE  chiefs  big  feet  shuffled  uneasily  under 
the  desk.    He  was  scowling  abominably. 

"Dang  it,  Bobbie!  I  won't  touch  it,"  he 
said.  "There's  no  use  sending  it  here.  I  know 
the  type.  You  needn't  tell  me  anything  about  it. 
I  tell  you  that  girl  can't  write  stories!" 

"But  if  you  could  find  time  just  to  look  it 
over." 

"It  isn't  the  time.  I've  all  the  time  there  is. 
Take  it  to  Smith." 

"You  are  so  much  more  just  than  Smith," 
persisted  Bobbie.  "Besides  she  knows  Smith, 
and  has  an  intense  dislike  for  him." 

"What's  that  to  do  with  it?  I'll  be  hanged 
if  I  want  her  to  love  me!  Nice  mess,  if  every 
woman  who  wrote  fell  in  love  with  the  editor! 
Tell  her  to  send  it  to  The  Argus." 

"She  can't  wait  so  long.  The  truth  is— 
though  she  doesn't  say  so — I — I — think  she's 
up  against  it" 

A  sharp  glance  shot  from  under  the  heavy 
eyebrows  of  the  chief. 

"So?     What's  the  matter  with  her?" 

81 


Tillicum  Tales 

"She's  been  having  a  beast  of  a  time.  Her 
mother  was  sick  all  winter,  and  died  a  couple  of 
weeks  ago.  They  lost  their  home — had  no  end 
of  trouble.  I  don't  suppose  her  salary  went 
very  far,  and  school's  out  now." 

"Any  family?"  queried  the  chief. 

"One  brother.  Bright  little  chap,  but  deli 
cate.  She's  awfully  good  to  him.  I  told  her  I 
thought  she  could  sell  anything  she  would  write. 
She's  very  clever." 

"Humph!  That's  no  sign  she  can  write. 
Good-looking,  too,  I  suppose." 

Bobbie  flushed.  He  suspected  he  was  being 
quizzed;  but  he  was  the  chief's  favorite.  He 
knew  anyone  else  would  have  been  squelched  long 
ago,  so  he  rose  to  it  manfully. 

"Yes,  she  is  good-looking.  I  think  she's 
beautiful." 

Another  glance  from  the  keen  eyes,  as  the 
chief  paused  in  the  work  he  was  continuing,  not 
withstanding  the  argument. 

"Why  don't  you  help  her,  instead  of  putting 
her  up  to  this  sort  of  thing?" 

Bobbie  was  off  guard. 

"Help  her!  I'd  die — I'd  do  anything  for 
her,"  excitedly.  "She  won't  let  me  help  her. 
She's  so  confoundedly  independent.  She  would 
never  bring  her  story  here  if  she  thought  you 
hesitated  about  it." 

"Bring  it !  Great  guns !  Don't  let  her  bring 
it!  Send  it,  man,  if  you  must — but  don't  let  her 
bring  it!" 

82 


TJie  Chiefs  Counterplot 

Mischief  wrinkled  the  corners  of  Bobbie's 
mouth  for  a  second.  He  knew  the  chiefs  weak 
ness. 

The  cause  was  half  won.  Now  for  the  other 
half.  He  took  a  long  jump. 

"If  you  don't  mind,  chief,  she  would  like  to 
read  it  to  you.  She  has  read  it  to  me.  It  is  full 
of  human  interest.  Could  she  come  at  two,  do 
you  think?" 

He  gasped  a  bit.     Had  he  overstepped? 

The  blue  pencil  slammed  on  the  desk.  The 
broad  back  straightened.  The  gray  eyes  shot 
fire. 

Not  a  trace  of  impudence  was  lurking  in  the 
innocence  of  Bobbie's  rosy  face. 

"Dang  it !    I  don't  care  when  she  conies !" 

"Thank  you,  sir." 

Bobbie  was  gone,  but  the  chief  was  sputtering. 

At  precisely  half  a  second  before  two,  the 
young  woman  under  discussion  entered  the 
chiefs  private  office. 

A  grunt  of  satisfaction  curled  over  in  the 
chief's  throat  after  the  moment  of  mutual  in 
spection.  Then  his  big  hand  went  out. 

She  smiled,  and  the  chief  was  won. 

"I  knew  your  mother.  You  are  like  her,"  he 
said,  and  wished  he  had  kept  still. 

In  the  next  thought  he  wondered  if  there  had 
really  been  a  look  of  pain  in  her  face  or  if  his  eyes 
were  growing  old. 

She  was  quite  composed,  quite  dignified — 
not  at  all  afraid,  as  girls  were  apt  to  be  when  they 

83 


Tillicwm,  Tales 

came  to  that  office,  and  she  went  straight  at  her 
mission,  which  he  liked. 

"No  tomfoolery !"  he  thought,  shoving  his  pa 
pers  aside. 

"You  are  very  kind.  I  know  how  busy  you 
are,"  she  remarked,  opening  her  manuscript.  "I 
have  cut  it  quite  short.  Mr.  Hartrett  thought 
it  long  in  places." 

"Humph!  How  many  words?"  he  asked, 
gruffly. 

"Just  four  thousand.  I  inserted  some  extra 
words  to  make  it  even." 

The  chief  spoke  hastily.  "What's  your 
title?" 

"Root-loimd." 

"Good  title.     Where  did  you  get  it?" 

"Well,  you  see,  I  began  this  story  when  we 
first  came  West.  Our  neighbors  were  so  very 
homesick." 

"Of  course.     Weren't  you?" 

"My  mother  would  not  allow  us  to  think  so," 
she  answered,  very  quietly.  "I  realize,  now,  how 
brave  she  was." 

"Women  are,  sometimes,"  under  his  breath. 
"Read  your  story." 

He  listened  until  she  had  finished,  enjoying 
the  well-modulated  voice,  vastly  more  than  the 
account  of  a  homesick  old  lady  who  had  come 
West  to  live — told  simply,  but  with  a  creaking 
of  machinery  that  jarred  the  chiefs  nerves. 

"What's  your  motive?"  he  asked  abruptly. 

She  colored.  "I  desired  employment  during 
my  vacation." 

84 


The  Chiefs  Counterplot 

He  coughed.  "I  don't  mean  that.  What's 
the  motif  of  your  story — your  theme?  What 
are  you  driving  at?" 

"O,  I  did  not  understand  you.  I  believe  T 
had  several  aims  in  my  mind.  I  wished  to  show 
the  Western  people  how  they  could  help  those 
who  came  from  the  East  to  become  contented — 
and  the  Eastern  women  how  to  help  themselves. 
Then  I  wanted  to  tell  how  lovely  those  young 
people  were  to  their  grandmother.  O,  yes — and 
I  wanted  to  show  how  the  beauties  of  nature 
could  assist  one  in  being  happy.  I  must  have 
had  four  motives." 

"Humph!"  restlessly.  "Too  much  motive. 
Have  one,  and  stick  to  it.  Make  it  strong.  Too 
much  narrative.  Not  enough  action.  Make  the 
old  lady  do  something." 

"Why,  Mr.  Sterling,  she  did  all  the  house 
work,  and  made  a  home  for  those  young  people. 
Surely  that  was  enough  for  one  woman  to  do. 
An  old  lady,  too." 

A  chuckle  came  from  the  chief. 

"Plenty,  plenty !     I  like  your  style." 

The  girl  blushed.  Bobbie  had  said  he  was  a 
gentleman.  Were  all  editors  like  this? 

"I  am  in  mourning,  because  of  my  mother's 
death,"  she  replied,  with  dignity.  The  editor 
was  surprised  at  his  own  embarrassment. 

"I  referred  to  your  literary  style.  Where's 
your  climax?" 

"My  climax?  Why,  O — I  think  it  must  have 
been  when  they  reached  Mount  Rainier.  No,  it 
was  when  she  came  home  from  the  picnic,  Sun- 

85 


Tillicum  Tales 

day  evening.     She  did  not  want  to  go,  you  know." 

"Naturally — from  New  England — and  on 
Sunday,  too.  She  should  not  have  gone." 

"But,  you  see,  the  old  lady,  who  was  our 
neighbor,  really  did  go." 

"No  matter!     Don't  let  her  do  it  again!" 

The  girl's  eyes  sparkled  with  fun.  The  chief 
forgot  what  he  meant  to  say  in  noticing  the 
laugh,  and  how  it  brightened  even  her  black 
gown. 

"There  is  no  danger  of  her  doing  it  again, 
for  she  has  gone  back  East,"  she  answered. 

"Where  she  belonged,"  emphatically.  "Ought 
to  have  stayed  there  in  the  first  place.  How 
much  time  have  you  put  on  this?" 

"Not  long  enough,  I  am  afraid,"  she  spoke 
doubtfully.  "I  worked  at  it,  off  and  on,  during 
several  months,  some  time  ago.  Then,  recently, 
when  I  had  read  it  to  Bobbie — to  Mr.  Hartrett, 
I  changed  it  some." 

"Fine  fellow,  Hartrett,     Known  him  long?" 

"Yes,  indeed.  All  my  life.  I  do  not  know 
what  we  should  have  done,  last  winter,  without 
him." 

The  chief's  shaggy  head  nodded.  His  alert 
eyes  had  seen,  and  the  quick  mind  interpreted, 
all  that  was  necessary.  He  strode  down  the 
room,  then  back  to  his  desk. 

"I'll  give  you  a  hundred  for  it.  We  pay  on 
acceptance.  Publish  when  we  get  ready." 

"Oh,"  she  gasped.     "Oh !" 

He  hoped  she  wasn't  going  to  faint,  and 
wished  Bobbie  were  there. 

86 


The  Chiefs  Counterplot 

"Oh,  Mr.  Sterling,  do  you  mean  you  will  buy 
my  story?  That  it  is  worth  a  hundred  dollars?" 

The  chief  cleared  his  throat.  He  was  hedg 
ing  for  time. 

"That's  all  I  can  allow  for  it.  Better  bring 
everything  you  write  to  me.  Am  very  busy. 
If  you  see  Bobbie,  send  him  here,  if  you  please. 
Good  afternoon." 

Bobbie  came.  There  was  no  question  in  the 
chiefs  mind  about  his  having  seen  the  ladj. 
The  young  man's  usually  ruddy  face  was  quite 
pale.  He  wanted  to  shake  hands  but  the  chief 
would  not  see  it. 

"Turned  in  that  political  stuff?"  he  asked 
brusquely. 

"Yes,  sir."  Bobbie's  work  was  always  on 
time.  "But  I —  I  will  just  have  to  thank  you, 
sir — she  was  so  happy,  she — cried.  She  said  it 
would  clear  her  up  in  great  shape."  He  hesi 
tated,  with  a  lump  in  his  throat  "And  if  you 
please,  Mr.  Sterling,  I  will  be  responsible  for 
that  hundred  dollars,  myself.  I — she — can  you 
use  the  story  at  all,  sir?" 

The  chief  turned  on  him. 

"You  scoundrel !  It's  in  that  basket!  That's 
what  I  bought  it  for.  Save  postage.  I  told 
you  she  couldn't  write.  Knew  it  all  along. 
Wrong  makeup.  Made  to  boss  a  cook,  and  to 
s«-\v  on  buttons.  Any  woman  can  peg  at  story- 
writing.  Only  one  in  a  thousand  can  make  a 
homo.  Why  don't  you  marry  her?" 

87 


Tillicum  Tales 

"I  want  to,  and  she  won't.  She  says  she 
won't  marry  till  little  Dick  is  well,  and  we  are 
ready  to  go  to  housekeeping." 

"That's  nothing,  you  booby!  Be  more  con 
vincing!  You  are  as  bad  as  her  yarn — nothing 
doing — not  enough  action — wrong  suspense — 
concentrate  your  forces — get  a  move  on  you !  Do 
you  hear?  Bring  things  to  a  climax!"  The 
chief  was  growing  excited. 

"I'd  be  the  happiest  man  on  earth,  if  I  could," 
soberly  spoke  Bobbie. 

"Well,  do  it!  Marry  her  now — this  after 
noon — both  of  'em!  Take  'em  to  my  house. 
Need's  a  woman  around.  She  can  look  after  Wil 
liams.  Housekeeper  been  gone  for  a  month.  Do 
as  you  please  about  going  yourself.  But — 
somebody's  got — to — marry — that — girl!  Dang 
it  Bobbie!  If  you  don't,  /  will!  Are  you  con 
vinced?  If  she  isn't  there  to  pour  my  coffee  to 
night,  you  lose  your  job !  I  mean  it !  D'ye  hear? 
Now  act!" 

As  the  door  slammed  behind  the  delighted 
Bobbie,  the  chief  wiped  his  spectacles. 

"I'm  an  old  fool!  Got  even  with  Bobbie, 
though !" 


88 


A 

Matrimonial  Epidemic 
at  Skookum 


BY 
F.   RONEY    WEIR 

Author  of 

'A  Romany  of  Rabbit  Run", 
"The  Hired  Man",  Etc. 


A 

Matrimonial  Epidemic 
at  Skookum 


.  WARREN  swears  it  was  his  plan, 
but  it  wasn't ;  it  was  mine  from  the  very 
outset 

Doc.  was  up  in  the  Skookum  Country  to  buy 
my  wares,  Siwash  blankets,  baskets,  mats,  cou 
gar  skins,  elks'  teeth.  I  was  rather  a  poor 
farmer,  and  eked  out  my  income  by  gathering 
such  interesting  and  ill-smelling  curios  as  came 
my  way  during  my  intercourse  with  the  natives. 

There  were  four  of  us  ranchers  whose  claims 
joined;  Jones,  a  raw-boned  Missourian,  Ole  Hel- 
geson,  from  the  land  of  the  Sagas,  and  Albert,  a 
Canadian  of  French  descent,  who  let  his  hair 
and  whiskers  grow  until,  if  we  wanted  to  commu 
nicate  with  him,  we  had  to  fire  a  rifle  to  attract 
his  attention  and  get  him  out  of  the  brush,  and 
myself. 

Said  I,  "Doc.,  we're  all  good  fellows,  and  if 
this  railroad  goes  through,  as  we  expect  it  will, 
we  shall  all  be  rich  within  the  next  ten  years. 
We  are  all  able  to  support  wives  in  good  shape 
even  now  if  we  had  'ern,  but  there  are  no  women 

91 


Tillicum  Tales 

out  here  except  a  kloochman  or  two,  and  we've 
been  stowed  away  in  the  woods  here  so  long  not 
one  of  us  dares  make  a  break  into  the  world 
after  a  wife.  Now  you  are  going  to  Chicago  with 
goods,  and  coming  right  back.  A  big  city  like 
Chicago  must  be  full  of  women  sort  of  old,  or 
homely,  or  over- worked,  who  would  jump  at  the 
chance  to  come  out  to  live  on  a  Washington 
ranch,  and  marry  a  man  who  stood  a  chance  of 
being  rich  as  soon  as  the  country  opens  up,  and 
the  railroad  gets  in." 

"I  presume  I  could  find  four  women  of  that 
description  down  there,"  said  Doc.,  "but  the 
trouble  is  if  I  should  find  'em  and  send  'em  out, 
you  wouldn't  like  the  brand,  and  I'd  have  'em  all 
on  my  hands.  Of  course,  being  a  widower,  I 
could  provide  for  one  of  'em,  but  what  would  be 
come  of  the  other  three?" 

"Aye  tak  von,  by  yingo!" 
promised  Ole  Helgeson. 
"I,  too,"  promised  Albert. 
"I  want  a  good-looker,  and 
young!"  said  Jones,  and  we 
gave  him  the  laugh,  for  I 
suppose  the  Lord  never 
made  but  one  homlier  man 
than  Jones,  and  for  personal 
reasons  I  rather  not  men 
tion  the  name  of  that  other* 
man. 

Well,  before  Doc.  started  we  all  promised 
that  if  he  would  do  the  best  he  could  we'd  stand 
by,  no  matter  what  he  handed  out  to  us ;  and  he 

92 


1  Matrimonial  Epidemic  at  Skookitm 

left  for  Chicago  with  that  understanding,  and  a 
cargo  of  Siwash  handiwork. 

After  Doc.  was  gone,  and  the  die  cast,  we 
began  to  feel  pretty  serious  about  what  we  had 
done.  We  used  to  get  together  nights  in  one 
cabin  or  the  other,  to  talk  the  matter  over.  \\V 
were  full  of  suggestions  as  to  improvements  in 
cadi  other's  personal  appearance,  and  surround 
ings. 

We  made  a  bee  and  gave  Albert  a  hair-cut  and 
a  shave,  and  after  that  we  used  to  start  every 
time  we  met  him  unexpectedly,  thinking  him  a 
stranger. 

Every  man  jack  of  us  did  some  extra  stunt 
to  make  our  cabins  more  attractive.  Jones 
painted  his  door  sky-blue;  Ole  cut  a  window  in 
his  cabin  (he  had  never  felt  the  necessity  of  a 
window  before)  ;  I  tapestried  my  walls  with  In 
dian  blankets,  and  Albert  winged  the  dust  from 
the  top  of  his  stovepipe. 

At  last  we  got  a  letter  from  Doc.  "I've 
rounded  up  the  four,"  he  wrote,  "I  don't  know  as 
they  will  be  at  all  satisfactory,  but  it  is  the  best 
I  can  do.  One  is  young  and  pretty,  one  not  so 
young,  nor  so  pretty,  but  full  of  fun  and  mighty 
stylish;  one  is  a  Swede  girl  who  will  never  be 
hung  for  her  beauty,  and  the  fourth  is  a  widow 
with  a  bad  eye  and  encumbrances." 

"Aye  tank  aye  don't  tak  dat  cucumbrances," 
said  Ole,  "Aye  tank  aye  lak  dat  Svede  gal  pooty 
veil." 

"You'll  take  just  whatever  you  happen  to 
draw  out  of  the  hat!"  Jones  assured  him. 

03 


Tillicum  Tales 

"I  think/'  said  I,  "that  Doc.  has  made  an  aw 
ful  mistake.  At  least  he  should  have  evened  up 
the  bunch.  From  'one  who  is  young  and  pretty' 
to  a  widow  with  a  bad  eye  and  encumbrances,  is 
a  fearful  latitude.  I  hope  the  matter  won't 
breed  quarrels  between  us." 

I  could  see  that  Jones  had  his  mind  set  on 
the  young  and  pretty  one;  and  Ole  kept  saying, 
"Aye  lak  dat  Svede  gal  pooty  veil,"  which  nar 
rowed  Albert's  choice  and  mine  down  to  the 
stylish  one,  and  the  widow  with  the  bad  eye. 

Then  Albert  made  his  declaration  of  inde 
pendence  by  stating  that  he  had  but  one  pet 
aversion  in  the  world,  and  that  was  widows,  so 
you  see  where  I  stood. 

The  nearer  the  time  came  for  our  cargo  to  ar 
rive,  the  shakier  we  got.  It  began  to  be  pretty 
clear  to  me  that  both  Albert  and  Jones  were  just 
on  the  point  of  taking  to  the  tall  timber,  and 
leaving  Doc.  and  the  rest  of  us  in  a  pretty  mess. 
Something  had  to  be  done. 

I  said:  "Boys,  it's  a  good  week  before  they 
can  get  here,  what  do  you  say  to  all  going  down 
to  Skookum  and  bowling  up  for  the  last  time?" 

None  of  us  were  drinking  men,  but  they  all 
grasped  at  the  idea. 

Albert  told  me  confidentially  that  whenever 
he  thought  of  that  "stylish  one"  looking  him 
over,  and  making  remarks  about  his  clothes,  he 
felt  that  he  must  make  a  run  for  safety  while 
yet  there  was  time. 

94 


A  Matrimonial  Epidemic  at  Skookum 

Even  Ole  began  to  weaken.  He  kept  say 
ing,  "Aye  tank  ve  pooty  big  fools!  Ve  gat  'long 
on  ranch  a'  right  mitout  dem  encumbrances!" 

I,  myself,  didn't  have  much  faith  in  the  goods 
Doc.  was  sending  out.  If  he  had  considered 
them  fair  to  middling  why  didn't  he  come  along 
back  with  them  according  to  agreement?  But 
I  wasn't  going  back  on  the  arrangement  at  this 
late  day,  and  what  was  more,  I  didn't  intend  that 
the  boys  should. 

I  had  told  the  boys  that  it  would  be  a  week 
before  the  shipment  from  Chicago  could  arrive, 
but  in  reality  I  knew  that  they  were  due  at 
Skookum  then. 

Not  being  in  the  habit  of  drinking,  it  didn't 
take  the  boys  any  time  to  get  into  a  condition 
where  they  wouldn't  have  been  afraid  to  face  a 
drove  of  ichthyosauruses. 

The  only  trouble  was  that  in  getting  the  boys 
fixed  up  I  became  so  uncertain  in  my  movements 
that  if  Ole  Helgeson  hadn't  hitched  on  to  me  and 
hauled  me  round  I'd  have  been  mislaid  in  some 
odd  corner  and  forgotten  entirely.  My  legs  felt 
just  like  two  strings  of  boiled  macaroni. 

From  that  time  on,  until  we  got  the  whole 
consignment  out  to  the  ranches,  there  is  just  a 
hazy  glimmer  in  my  mind,  like  looking  into  a 
broken  kaleidoscope.  I  remember  dimly  of 
standing  up  in  a  row  to  be  married.  Somebody 
had  his  arms  around  me,  supporting  the  weight 
of  my  body,  which  my  macaroni  legs  refused,  and 
I  took  it  for  granted  that  the  person  who  was 
supporting  me  was  the  one  to  whom  I  was  being 

95 


Tillicum  Tales 

married.  When  I  discovered  that  it  was  still 
Ole,  I  was  troubled.  I  liked  Ole  as  a  neighbor 
and  friend,  but  I  didn't  care  to  be  joined  to  him 
in  the  holy  bonds  of  matrimony. 

Opposite  us  stood  a  group  of  women,  some 
young,  some  old. 

After  the  ceremony  we  hired  a  team  and  a  big 
wagon  with  a  shingle-rack,  and  all  went  home 
together.  Ole  Helgeson  drove.  He  was  the  only 
one  in  the  crowd  who  had  kept  up  his  practice 
in  the  gentle  art  of  boozing,  so  he  was  not  quite 
so  incapacitated  as  were  the  rest  of  us. 

It  seemed  to  me  as  I  looked  over  the  load, 
that  there  were  a  great  many  more  of  us  than 
there  should  have  been. 
There  was  one  old  party 
with  a  heavy  dewlap  under 
her  chin,  and  a  sunken 
mouth,  who  kept  looking  re 
provingly  at  me  with  her 
little,  aged,  watery  eyes  un 
til  it  dawned  on  my  be- 
dimmed  brain  that  she  must 
be  my  wife. 

It  made  me  pretty  blue. 
She  seemed  a  kindly  old  soul,  but  her  extreme 
age  precluded  the  hope  that  she  could  long  oe 
spared  to  bless  my  life,  and  a  fear  of  long  years 
of  unconsolable  widowerhood  saddened  me.  But 
I  had  promised  Doc.  Warren  to  stand  pat  in  this 
deal,  no  matter  what  I  drew,  so  as  soon  as  1 
could,  safely,  I  crawfished  over  to  her  side  and 
asked  her  gently  if  she  knew  whether  or  not  I 
was  her  newly  wedded  husband. 

96 


A  Mc&rimOttM  Epidemic  at  Skookiim 

She  said  it  was  all  so  muddled  up  that  she'd 
be  blest  if  she  could  tell  who  was  married  and 
who  wasn't  She  said  that  everybody  that  was 
able  to  stand  up  stood  up,  and  the  justice  of  the 
peace  rattled  off  something,  and  there  wasn't 
light  enough  from  the  one  old  dirty  oil  lamp  to 
distinguish  faces,  especially  the  faces  of  strang 
ers. 

By  the  time  we  reached  my  shack  we  had 
sobered  up  a  good  deal.  We  piled  the  women 
and  child — dear,  thin-legged,  little  Alexandrina, 
the  sweetest  youngone  on  earth! — all  out  there, 
and  then  we  men  drew  off  to  one  side  and  held 
a  consultation,  and  found  out  that  we  were  as 
much  in  the  dark  as  was  the  old  lady. 

Jones  crumpled  right  down  under  a  big  tree 
and  began  to  cry. 

"I  don't  give  a  hang  what  you  do  to  me,  I 
will  not  have  that  old  woman!"  he  blubbered. 
"You're  goin'  to  poke  her  off  on  me,  I  can  see  that 
plain  enough,  but  I  won't  stand  for  it  I  tell  you !" 

"Aye  lak  dat  Svede  gal  pooty  veil,"  said  Ole 
sadly. 

"Who  are  all  these  women  anyhow?"  de 
manded  Jones.  "There  are  more  women  here 
than  the  bill  calls  for — and  who  does  that  thin 
long-legged  youngone  belong  to?  Who  wants 
her,  I'd  liko  to  know!" 

"I'll  take  that  youngone,"  I  said,  "She's  just 
as  gentle  and  pretty  as  she  can  be !" 

"There's  just  one  woman  in  the  whole  bunch 
that's  worth  taking!"  declared  Jones. 

"Which  one  is  that?"  inquired  Albert. 

97 


Tillicum  Tales 

"It's  the  yellow  pompadour — the  pretty  one! 
But,  of  course,  you  all  feel  the  same  as  I  do,  I 
suppose !" 

"I  dont,"  said  Albert, 
"Fd  rather  have  the  one 
with  her  back  platted  into 
town  lots,  and  her  hat 
clean  out  of  plumb — the 
stylish  one." 

"Aye  lak  dat  Svede  gal 
pooty  veil,"  suggested  Ole 
gently. 

"So  far  as  I  am  concern 
ed,"  said  I,  "I  am  willing 
to  become  the  stepfather  of  that  dear,  thin-legged 
little  girl,  no  matter  who  her  mother  is." 

"We  all  know  who  we  want,"  said  Jones  pet 
ulantly,  "but  we  don't  know  who  we've  got! 
Where  are  the  licenses,  Leffy.  What  did  they 
say?" 

"I  got  the  licenses  before  the  women  came.  I 
didn't  know  their  names,  of  course,  so  I  just  had 
'em  filled  in  as  they  do  in  legal  documents,  Jane 
Doe,  Jennie  Doe,  Jennet  Doe,  and  J.  Doe." 

Then  we  looked  up  the  certificates  which  that 
old  dough-head  of  a  justice  had  scratched  off, 
and  we  found  that  they  corresponded  with  the 
licenses  and  told  us  nothing. 

"We  each  know  the  woman  we  want,"  said  1 
decisively,  "but  we  don't  know  whether  we  are 
married  to  the  right  one  or  not.  Now  there  is 
only  one  way  to  be  sure  and  that  is  to  go  back 
and  start  all  over  again!" 

98 


A  Matrimonial  A'm/V////r  at  *s'/»v>o  A-  inn 


"How's  that?"  asked  Jones. 

"Take  'em  all  back  to  town,  all  get  divorces, 
and  get  married  again  soberly,  decently,  and  in 
daylight,  and  to  the  right  ones!" 

But  Jones  objected.  He  said  that  would  do 
very  well  for  the  rest,  because  they  were  just 
everyday  common  place  sort  of  women  ;  but  to 
take  that  golden-haired  beauty  back  to  the  gay 
town  of  Skookum,  and  leave  her  there  all  the  time 
it  would  take  to  get  a  divorce  would  be  to  risk 
losing  her  entirely.  Some  Skookum  man  would 
put  her  in  mind  of  the  loneliness  of  ranch  life, 
and  she'd  never  come  back  up  in  here  to  live,  in 
the  world. 

"Let's  ask  the  women,"  I  suggested,  and  they 
appointed  me  a  committee  of  one  to  do  so. 

I  went  up  to  a  tall,  pleasant-faced  woman,  and 
began  to  open  the  case,  but  she  stepped  back  and 
called  softly,  "Gabrielle!"  and  out  came  the 
daintiest  little  thing  —  I  could  see  at  once  that 
she  was  better  than  pretty  —  she  was  fascinat 
ing! 

"This  is  my  daughter, 
Mrs.  Roby,"  said  the  pleas 
ant-faced  woman.  "I  mean 
she  was  Mrs.  Roby  before 
she  was  married  this  morn 
ing." 

Mrs.  Roby  had  a  bandage 
over  one  eye.  Here,  then, 
was  the  widow  witli  the  had 
eye,  as  Doc.  Warren  had  put 
it,  the  mother  of  the  thin- 

99 


Tillioum  Tales 

legged  little  cherub  whom  I  coveted. 

I  was  gone  in  a  minute ! — all  in,  as  they  say. 

She  sat  down  upon  a  log  and  put  a  hand 
over  the  bandage  as  if  in  pain. 

"What's  the  matter  with  your  eye?"  I  in 
quired  kindly. 

"Gone!"  said  she  solemnly. 

"You  poor  little  thing !"  said  I,  "But  what  of 
it!  I  am  going  to  make  you  just  as  happy  as  a 
little  queen  out  here.  The  railroad  is  coming 
through  pretty  soon,  and  we  intend  to  start  a 
sawmill  and  work  up  our  own  timber.  You'll 
be  rich,  and  a  rich  woman  don't  need  but  one 
eye." 

"Do  you  like  me?"  she  inquired  softly. 

"Like  you!"  said  I,  "More  than  that!" 

"And  there  is  little  Alexandrina  — " 

"I  loved  her  before  I  ever  saw  you !  I  shall 
keep  her  whether  you  have  me  or  not!" 

"And  there's  mother  — " 

"Well?" 

"And  grandmother  — " 

"Bring  'em  on !"  said  I,  "Aunt  Susan  and 
Uncle  Phineas,  Cousin  Jerusha  and  John  Henry ! 
If  your  relations  stood  as  thick  as  those  cedars 
out  yonder,  I'd  take  'em  all — with  you !" 

Then  if  you'll  believe  it>  she  shed  that  band 
age  then  and  there,  and  gleamed  up  at  me 
through  two  of  the  prettiest  eyes  man  ever  gazed 
into. 

"What  made  you  do  that?"  I  asked. 

"I  thought  the  wrong  man  wouldn't  be  apt 
to  choose  a  disfigured  woman,  and  if  there  was 

100 


A  Matrimonial  /v/>/</r;/nr  at  Xkookum 

a  right  one  he  would  choose  in  spite  of  the  dis 
figuration.  If  there  wasn't  any  right  one  mother 
and  I  had  planned  to  go  out  as  cooks  in  Seattle, 
with  grandmother  to  care  for  little  Alexandrina," 

Well  now  you  may  be  sure  I  was  glad  enough 
that  Jones  was  smitten  with  that  yellow  pompa 
dour.  I  never  liked  the  looks  of  that  young 
woman  from  the  very  first;  she  was  young,  but 
she  looked  too  wise  to  suit  me.  I  wouldn't  care 
to  have  this  get  out,  for  Jones  thinks  she  is  the 
one  and  only;  he  wouldn't  stand  anybody  saying 
a  thing  against  his  wife.  And  Jones  and  Albert 
and  Ole  and  I  have  always  been  good  friends  and 
neighbors,  as  I  hope  we  always  shall  be.  And 
I  was  glad  that  Albert  took  to  the  woman  with 
the  plaid  mackintosh  and  that  Ole  "laked  dat 
Svede  gal  pooty  veil,"  leaving  the  widow  with  the 
bad  eye  and  the  encumbrances  to  me. 

"I  suppose  we'll  all  have  to  get  divorces,"  I 
said. 

"I  hardly  believe  that  will  be  necessary,"  an 
swered  Gabrielle.  "What  is  written  in  your 
marriage  certificate?" 

I  took  it  out  of  my  pocket  and 
read:  "This  is  to  certify  that 
Leffingwell  Stroud  and  Jane  Doe 
were  this  day  united  by  me  in 
the  holy  bonds  of  matrimony — " 
and  so  on. 

"Christenings  are  much  cheap 
er  than  divorces,"  said  Gabrielle, 
and  reaching  down,  she  dipped 
her  pretty  fingers  in  a  little  rill 

101 


Tillictim  Tales 

and  sprinkled  a  few  drops  over  her  own  head.  "I 
christen  you  Jane  Doe,"  she  said,  "and  I  believe 
now  we  are  as  legally  married  as  the  law  can 
make  us." 

We  all  gathered  round  and  held  a  council  of 
war,  and  as  the  women  were  satisfied,  we  adopted 
Ga — ,  I  mean  Jane  Doe's,  suggestion. 

After  the  christening  my  wife  and  my  mother- 
in-law  got  up  a  dinner — why  say!  everybody  in 
the  settlement  talks  of  that  dinner  to  this  day! 
And  evolved  from  just  next  to  nothing,  too! 
There  isn't  but  one  woman  west  of  the  Cascades 
who  can  cook  better  than  my  mother-in-law,  and 
that  is  my  wife,  Jane  Doe. 

And  this  brings  me  to  the  sad  part  of  my 
story : 

I  went  right  to  work  to  build  the  swellest 
ranch  house  around  the  country  in  which  to  make 
my  family  comfortable.  I  had  a  great  fireplace 
put  in,  and  I  bought  a  fine  upholstered  easy- 
chair,  with  elephant  ears  at  the  sides — you  know 
the  kind — for  my  grandmother-in-law  to  sit  in 
beside  the  roaring  blaze  of  my  chimney,  and  tell 
my  little  Alexandrina  fairy  stories;  and  I  built 
an  elegant  kitchen  and  pantry,  equipped  with 
all  the  latest  devices  for  fine  cooking,  so  that  my 
mother-in-law  could  show  off  her  fine  points — 
there  wasn't  a  man  of  'em  but  who  envied  me  my 
mother-in-law — and  j'ust  as  I  had  everything 
fixed  to  the  queen's  taste,  along  comes  that  old 
Doc.  Warren  back  from  the  East  and  robbed  me 
of  my  mother-in  law,  and  my  grandmother-in- 
law!  Yes  sir!  married  my  mother-in-law,  and 

102 


A  Matrimonial  Epidemic  at  Skookum 

took  her  to  Skookum  to  live,  and  of  course,  she 
took  her  mother  with  her. 

Said  I,  "Doc.,  I  never  thought  you'd  do  me  dirt 
like  this!"  and  then  I  heaved  that  easy-chair  with 
earlappers  up  on  top  of  the  load  of  moving  stuff 
— trunks  and  things  which  belonged  to  the  bride 
—and  says  I,  "Take  it  along!  I  can't  bear  the 
sight  of  it  there  by  the  fire!  But,"  I  says, 
"there's  my  wife  and  child  left;  no  man  can  ever 
get  them  away  from  me." 

"What'll  you  bet?"  says  Doc.  "Look  at  that 
youngone,  how  she's  shooting  up.  Before  you 
can  say  Jack  Robinson  she'll  be  a  young  lady 
and  some  young  rancher  will  come  courting,  and 
away  will  go  another  of  your  brood." 

And  I  presume  that's  true. 

Yes,  we  took  great  chances  on  that  marriage 
deal,  but  we  came  out  lucky  after  all.  Jones 
has  an  ever-augmenting  family,  and  his  wife 
hasn't  a  particle  of  good  looks  left;  but  Jones 
doesn't  know  it.  Albert  just  sits  and  lets  his 
whiskers  grow,  and  gazes  with  admiring  eyes  at 
the  "stylish  one,"  and  Ole  will  stop  work  any 
time  of  day  to  assure  you  that  he  "laks  dat 
Svede  gal  pooty  veil!"  My  wife,  Jane  Doe,  has 
all  the  beauty,  and  what's  more  to  the  point,  all 
the  brains,  and  it  seems  strange  that  the  other 
men  don't  realize  it. 


103 


The  Duchess  of  Rattle 
snake  Prairie 

BY 
FLORENCE  MARTIN  EASTLAND 


"Near  the  door  of  the  lean-to  kitchen  Joe  Had  resumed  his 
biscuit-making." 


The  Duchess  of  Rattle 
snake  Prairie 


Round  Hill  school  house  bell  had  just 
sounded  its  morning  invitation.  \Vheu 
the  teacher,  Ida  Hamilton,  appeared  at 
the  door  to  shake  a  dust-cloth  she  saw  two  little 
strangers  toiling  up  the  frozen  pathway.  Their 
faces  were  blue  with  cold  and  occasionally  they 
brought  to  their  lips  their  mittenless  fingers  in 
vain  efforts  to  breathe  warmth  into  their  frozen 
tips. 

"Never  mind,  Baldy,"  remarked  the  larger,  a 
girl,  "we're  here  now  an'  we'll  soon  git  warm. 
Don't  cry;  teacher  '11  think  you're  not  a  nice 
boy." 

"You  poor  babies!"  Ida  exclaimed  compas 
sionately,  noting  the  thin  ragged  clothing. 
"Whore1  did  you  come  from?  No;  you  need  not 
tell  me  till  you  are  warm.  Here." 

She  drew  her  chair  to  the  red-hot  stove  and 
took  the  boy  on  her  lap,  rubbing  the  rough, 
cracked  hands.  The  little  girl  attended  to  her 
own  needs  in  a  most  womanly  fashion.  When 
she  became  warmer  she  took  from  her  apron 
pocket  a  note  which  she  handed  to  the  teacher. 

107 


Tillicum  Tales 

"  'Fraid  you  cayn't  make  it  out,"  she  smiled. 
"Maw  allers  writes  with  so  many  kinks  an'  the 
ink  was  froze;  but  I  kin  tell  you  what  she  says." 

The  "kinks"  resolved  themselves  into  a  badly 
expressed  wish  that  the  teacher  would  call  the 
children  by  their  full  names,  Gwendolin  and 
Archibald  Dinwiddie. 

"Don't  do  it,"  entreated  the  child.  "Every 
body  laughs  at  'em  an'  paw  calls  us  jest  Linny 
an'  Baldy  an'  the  baby  Essy — her  real  name  is 
Esmereldy." 

"We  will  see,"  Ida  answered.  Other  chil 
dren  entered  and  after  a  little  the  last  bell  sig 
nalled  them  to  their  seats.  At  the  conclusion 
of  the  opening  song  Ida  announced : 

"We  have  two  new  pupils  this  morning  from 
Rattlesnake  Prairie.  They  have  such  grand 
names,  Gwendolin  and  Archibald,  that  they  do 
not  harmonize  with  our  plain  ones,  Susie  and 
Sadie,  Annie  and  Ida,  Taylor  and  John,  so  I 
think  we  will  do  as  their  father  does  and  call 
them  Linny  and  Baldy,  except," — she  paused  and 
smiled  into  the  upturned  puzzled  faces — "on 
great  occasions  like  our  entertainments,  when 
we  will  use  their  full  names." 

Books  were  quietly  taken  out  and  the  routine 
of  the  day  began.  According  to  the  business-like 
program  fastened  above  the  front  blackboard, 
the  infant  class  recited  first.  Baldy  was  called 
up  with  two  others  who  had  learned  to  read  a 
little. 

108 


The  Duchess  of  /fr////r.s-/w/,-r  I'mirie 

"Do  you  know  this  word,  Baldy?"  inquired 
Ida  as  she  pointed  to  the  lesson  printed  on  the 
board. 

"D-o-g,"  was  the  reply  spelled  slowly. 

"Why  you  know  your  letters,"  commented  the 
teacher.  "Now  tell  me  the  word." 

"Duchess,"  loudly  declared  the  boy.  A  sup 
pressed  titter  rippled  around  the  room,  soon 
silenced  by  Ida's  warning  glance.  Linny,  sit 
ting  close  by,  put  up  a  timid  hand  above  a 
troubled  brow. 

"Please,  teacher,  he  only  knows  his  letters. 
Paw  told  him  D  stood  for  Duchess." 

"Duchess  of  Rattlesnake  Prairie,"  inter 
rupted  Baldy.  "That's  what  paw  calls  maw." 

Tears  rose  in  the  eyes  of  the  sensitive  girl; 
but  Ida  with  another  look  at  the  amused  pupils 
reassured  her  by  observing  pleasantly : 

"Your  father  must  think  a  great  deal  of  your 
mother  when  he  gives  her  such  a  fine  title.  A 
duchess  is  a  great  person  indeed." 

"He  does,"  was  the  earnest  reply.  "He  tells 
maw  every  day  he  ain't  good  enough  for  her,  but 
that  ain't  so." 

"Now  show  me  how  nicely  you  can  write  your 
father's  name  while  I  finish  this  lesson,"  re 
turned  Ida  hastily. 

The  children  interested  and  puzzled  her.  Neg 
lect,  sturdiness  of  character  and  ability  to 
solve  their  own  problems  were  strongly  in  evi 
dence.  During  the  next  week  she  could  learn 
nothing  of  the  new-comers  who  lived  two  miles 

109 


Tillicum  Tales 

off  the  main  road.  She  resolved  to  make  a  call 
Sunday  afternoon  on  the  parents  of  her  pupils. 

As  she  drove  up  the  bad  road  of  the  rented 
farm  she  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  curl-papered  head 
at  the  uncurtained  window.  Immediately  a 
couple  of  barking  hounds  sprang  out  of  the  door 
followed  by  a  good-natured  giant  with  floury 
hands.  With  a  word  he  silenced  the  dogs. 

"Howdy,  Miss,"  was  his  greeting.  "Linny 
seen  you  com  in'  an'  said  you're  her  teacher. 
Come  in." 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Dinwiddie,"  replied  Ida, 
alighting  before  he  could  brush  the  flour  from 
his  hands. 

He  regarded  her  sheepishly. 

"Jest  Joe,  Miss.  Laury,  my  wife,  you  know, 
carries  all  the  honors.  She'll  be  right  glad  to  see 
you." 

They  passed  into  the  cabin  and  with  great 
pride  Joe  presented  Ida  to  his  wife,  who  sat  in 
an  old  hickory  rocker.  The  curl  papers  had  van 
ished  and  in  their  stead  rows  of  straw-colored 
ringlets  clustered  around  the  forehead  and  ears 
of  the  Duchess.  Her  pale  blue  eyes  shone  kindly 
while  a  smile  shortened  .the  lip  above  the  promi 
nent  teeth.  With  quite  the  air  of  an  exalted 
dame  she  motioned  Ida  to  a  seat  on  the  only  un 
occupied  splint-bottom  chair. 

For  a  time  Ida  was  overcome  by  the  studied 
negligence  of  the  Duchess  and  surprise  at  finding 
the  frail  little  woman  upholding  such  an  im 
pressive  manner.  She  glanced  about  the  room 
and  noted  its  disorder  and  poverty.  In  a  home- 

110 


The  //'//'7/rx.v  of  Jtatth'Niutkc  Prairie 

made  cradle  by  the  untidy  bed  lay  a  sleeping 
child  with  very  dirty  face.  Near  the  door  of  the 
lean-to  kitchen  Joe  had  resumed  his  biscuit-mak 
ing,  and  near  by  little  Linny  was  trying  to  comb 
Baldy's  hair.  The  eyes  of  the  Duchess  followed 
Ida's  and  with  a  fetching  sigh  she  observed : 

"I  kin  guess  what  you're  thinkin'  of,  Miss 
Hamilton;  but  when  a  woman  marries  beneath 
her  she  rnusnt  expect  to  have  everything  nice 
around  her.  Joe  does  the  best  he  kin,  but — " 
She  paused  with  a  deprecatory  wave  of  her  hand 
while  she  pathetically  shook  her  ringlets. 

Ordinarily  Ida,  the  energetic,  would  have 
breezed  a  little  wholesome  discipline  into  her  re 
ply  to  a  speech  so  entirely  at  variance  with  her 
common-sense  principles.  She  was  therefore 
amazed  to  hear  herself  saying : 

"Every  sacrifice  costs  something." 

Immediately  she  realized  the  import  of  her 
remark  and  she  glanced  apologetically  at  Joe. 
He  nodded  contentedly  over  his  biscuit-pan. 

"My  little  woman,  the  Duchess  there,  made  a 
great  mistake  when  she  took  me.  I  knowed  it 
at  the  time,  an'  we've  tried  to  make  the  best  of 
it.  She'd  orter  married  the  quality." 

"I  think  she  did,"  returned  Ida  with  her  eyes 
on  the  wholesome  honest  face. 

"Who — me?  Well  now,  ain't  that  a  joke? 
Why  I  cayn't  hardly  read  an'  write;  but  Laury 
there  knows  them  books  nearly  all  by  heart" 

He  pointed  to  a  row  of  paper-back  novels  on 
a  shelf.  Beside  them  lay  heaps  of  "Ledgers"  and 

111 


Tillicum  Tales 

"Family  Journals."  One  survey  was  sufficient 
to  account  for  the  airs  of  the  Duchess. 

"Yes,  sir;"  he  continued,  "inany's  the  night 
she's  set  in  her  cheer  till  mornin'  a-readin'  'em. 
'Tain't  any  ord'n'y  woman  that  '11  do  thet."  The 
baby  awoke  and  cried.  The  mother  paid  no  at 
tention,  but  continued  her  posing  while  Joe  came 
and  put  on  the  child's  shoes  and  gave  her  some 
milk. 

"It  is  true,"  declared  the  Duchess  plaintive 
ly.  "I  was  so  young  when  I  married — only  six 
teen — 't  I  didn't  re'lize  I  was  thro  win'  myself 
away.  Ef  I'd  only  waited  I'm  sure  I  could  'a' 
married  into  the  aristocracy.  Think  of  me  tied 
down  with  children  when  I  might  be  holdin'  court 
in  a  splendid  palace." 

Ida  was  interested  in  spite  of  her  disapproval 
of  the  hopeless  condition  of  the  Duchess.  She 
could  not  comprehend  the  situation.  Here  was 
a  narrow-chested  delicate  woman  with  no  sem 
blance  of  beauty,  who  compelled  a  sturdy  adoring 
protector  to  spoil  her  life  as  well  as  his  own  by 
humoring  her  absurd  pretenses.  Did  he  really 
believe  in  his  wife?  There  was  no  doubt  of  it. 
Ida  herself  felt  something  of  the  dominant  power 
of  the  pretender. 

Yet  something  should  be  done.  The  domes 
tic  peace  of  a  family  possibly  rested  upon  suc 
cessfully  arousing  the  woman  to  a  perception  of 
her  deficiencies;  and  Ida  was  young  and  consci 
entious.  She  found  her  judgment,  however,  less 
acute  when  confronted  by  this  strange  family,  so 
she  resolved  to  study  the  situation  before  at- 

112 


The  Duchetts  of  /'uttlcxiuike 

tempting  to  bring  the  Duchess  to  a  realization 
of  her  failure  as  a  wife  and  mother. 

nn  her  homeward  drive  she  concluded  her 
most  effective  plan  would  be  a  hint  to  Joe  at  the 
first  opportunity.  It  came  sooner  than  she  ex 
pected.  Upon  reaching  the  school-house  next 
morning  she  found  him  waiting  in  his  farm 
wagon.  Anxiety  clouded  his  open  face. 

-The  children  won't  be  to  school  today.  I 
left  'em  home  to  set  with  their  maw.  She  was 
took  with  a  hard  chill  last  night  an'  her  fever  to 
day  is  awful  high.  I  thought  mebby  you'd  know 
of  some  woman  I  could  git  to  come  fer  a  few 
days." 

"Why,  yes;  Hannah  Manley  is  an  excellent 
nurse  and  lives  three  miles  east  of  here.  She 
will  go,  I  am  sure.  Was  your  wife  ill  when  I 
left  yesterday?" 

"No,  no!"  Joe  hastily  affirmed,  "she  was  bet 
ter' n  I've  seen  her  fer  some  time.  Said  it  done 
her  good  to  meet  somebody  her  ekal.  She  had  a 
faintin'  spell  after  supper,  but  she  has  them  right 
often — jest  like  high-toned  ladies,"  he  concluded 
with  a  wan  smile. 

The  little  Dinwiddies  failed  to  appear  each 
morning  of  the  ensuing  week.  As  no  word  of 
their  mother's  condition  had  come  to  Ida,  she 
decided  to  go  over  Saturday  morning  to  see  the 
sick  woman. 

The  baying  hounds  greeted  her  unchecked  be 
fore  she  silenced  them  with  a  flourish  of  her  whip. 
Tying  her  horse  to  the  rotten  pickets  of  the  gar 
den  fence,  she  tapped  lightly  at  the  door.  Han- 

113 


Tittioum  Tales 

nah  Mauley  appeared  and  motioned  her  to  enter. 
Before  her  eyes  sought  the  Duchess  she  noticed 
the  cleanliness  and  order. 

The  bed  had  been  pulled  near  the  center  of  the 
room  and  above  the  clean  sheet  laid  over  the  bed 
covers  arose  the  hollowed  face.  Her  breath 
came  with  difficulty  between  the  parched  lips  and 
her  eyes  were  staring  and  glassy.  The  baby  lay 
asleep  on  the  foot  of  the  bed.  Near  by  the  chil 
dren  stood  sobbing  quietly.  By  his  wife's  side 
knelt  Joe,  overwhelming  misery  expressed  in  his 
tearless  eyes. 

"Laury,  Laury  girl,  cay  n't  you  see  me  or  hear 
me?  It's  Joe,  yer  old  rough,  unworthy  Joe. 
Little  girl — ye — ain't — goin'?"  he  cried,  as  he 
chafed  her  thin  hands.  "Little  Duchess,  my  lit 
tle  Duchess,"  he  moaned  in  despair. 

Hannah  Manley,  sorrowfully  shaking  her 
head  in  answer  to  Ida's  look  of  inquiry,  poured 
some  brandy  between  the  colorless  lips.  Soon 
the  breathing  became  less  labored  and  the  eyes 
grew  natural.  The  sick  woman  motioned  Ida 
to  come  nearer. 

"Tell  'em  to  go  out  fer  a  little,"  she  whispered 
weakly.  "I  want  to  speak  to  you." 

Fortified  by  another  dose  of  brandy  adminis 
tered  as  the  family  withdrew,  she  seemed  almost 
herself  again,  putting  up  a  trembling  hand  to 
arrange  the  damp  hair  above  her  forehead. 

"It  looks  very  well,"  observed  Ida  soothingly. 
"Now  while  you  are  stronger  tell  me  what  you 
wish  to  say." 

114 


The  Dtwtess  of  Rattlesnake  Prairie 

"Joe  has  been  good  to  me,"  she  said,  faintly, 
after  a  long  pause.  "I  want  to  tell  you,  but  not 
him,  thet  Fve  found  out  durin'  this  sickness  jest 
how  selfish  I've  be'n  an'  what  a  poor  wife  I've 
made  him.  He  thinks  I'm  'way  above  most  wom 
en,  an'  when  I'm  gone  I  want  him  to  think  of  me 
like  that  an'  tell  the  children  what  a  fine  woman 
I  was,  jest  as  he  allers  has." 

She  paused  exhausted.  As  Ida  rearranged 
the  pillows  to  raise  the  tired  head  she  thought  of 
the  pitiful  passion  strong  even  at  death's  door, 
that  had  made  the  life  of  the  poor  little  Duchess 
a  mockery.  Incomprehensible  was  the  attitude 
of  the  dying  wife.  With  never  a  thought  of  her 
future  existence,  her  last  desire  was  to  perpetu 
ate  a  sham.  While  Ida  was  trying  to  frame  a 
suitable  suggestion  of  the  hereafter,  the  failing 
voice  resumed : 

"Gwendolin  '11  soon  be  able  to  do  a  right 
smart  about  the  house.  She's  conside'ble  handy 
now.  Mebby  you'll  come  sometimes  an'  learii 
her  how  to  do  things.  Joe  will  git  along  'bout 
as  well  without  me,  only  he  will  miss  me.  I 
want  him  to.  He's  all  I've  ever  had  to  worship 
me ;  an'  ef  he  marries  ag'in — I  s'pose  he  will — no 
other  woman  '11  ever  take  my  place." 

"Have  you  thought  of  anything  else — the  life 
beyond?"  inquired  Ida  noting  the  growing  weak 
ness. 

"No;  it  makes  my  headache.  I — ain't  afeared. 
('all  Joe  and'" — her  voice  trailed  off  faintly — 
"don't— tell— him." 

115 


Tillicum  Tales 

Ida  quickly  summoned  the  others  and  went 
into  the  kitchen.  After  a  time  Joe  staggered 
out.  His  face  was  drawn  and  gray,  his  eyes 
hopeless  in  their  woe. 

"She's  gone,"  he  groaned.  "I  never  deserved 
her.  She  was  'way  above  me;  but  I  could  look 
up  to  her  an'  be  thankful  every  day  I  had  her  to 
work  fer." 

His  broad  shoulders  shook  and  he  bowed  his 
head  in  his  hands.  Quick  tears  rolled  down 
Ida's  cheeks — tears  of  sympathy  for  Joe  and  re 
gret  for  the  hasty  judgment  which  had  con 
demned  as  useless  the  life  of  the  poor  little  Duch 
ess.  But  her  heart  throbbed  in  thankfulness 
that,  through  her  sense  of  duty,  she  had  not 
robbed  a  simple  soul  of  his  highest  ideal. 


116 


A  Letter  to  Cecilia 

BY 
MABEL    VOLLINTINE   McGILL 


A  Letter  to  Cecilia 


"Oh,  the  little  more,  and  how  much  it  is! 
And  the  little  less,  and  what  worlds  away!" 

BOVE  his  writing-table  hung  Ce 
cilia's  portrait,  the  one  he  had 
painted  that  last  summer  she  was 
at  home.  Whatever  his  other  pos 
sibilities  as  an  artist  might  be,  he 
certainly  could  paint  Cecilia,  could  catch  and 
hold  fast  on  canvas  the  elusive  beauty  of  her 
face,  with  its  sweet,  eager  eyes,  its  tender  mouth. 
His  weekly  letters  (posted  weekly,  but  written  in 
daily  instalments)  and  her  picture  before  him  as 
he  wrote  had  served  infinitely  to  lighten  the  four 
dreary  years  of  her  absence.  With  the  help  of 
these,  he,  who  was  of  none  too  patient  temper, 
had  not  failed  in  the  task  of  enforced  patience  he 
lia<l  s<*t  himself — the  awaiting  that  time  when 
Cecilia,  having  tried  her  wings,  having  absorbed 
the  best  that  the  ateliers  could  give  her,  should 
return,  like  a  homing  dove,  to  the  hand  that  had 
sent  her  forth. 

And  now  he  would  meet  his  reward — she  was 
coming  home! 

"Tli is  is  my  last  letter,"  he  wrote,  "for  you 
will  sail  on  the  twenty-seventh.      It  rejoices  me, 

119 


Tillicum  Tales 

dear,  that  your  heart  yearns  toward  the  old  home 
and  the  old  friends.  Your  country  needs  your 
art,  and  we  need  you! 

"I  suppose  I  shall  have  no  more  letters  from 
you ;  although,  to  be  sure,  your  last  one  is  dated 
more  than  six  weeks  ago.  But  then,  your  writ 
ing  always  did  leave  much  to  be  desired  in  re 
spect  of  frequency.  The  more  I  consider  that 
last  letter,  the  odder  it  seems  that  you  could 
have  written  such  a  cle  profundis  sort  of  thing. 
It  only  goes  to  show  that  periods  of  depression 
will  come  to  all  young  creatures  with  ' tempera 
ment' — even  to  you,  the  hopeful,  the  ardent. 
However,  that  was  six  weeks  ago;  and  today  you 
are  happy  enough,  I  doubt  not,  for  your  father 
and  mother  are  with  you,  and  to  witness  their 
delight  in  the  things  they  have  dreamed  all  their 
lives  of  seeing  and  enjoying  would,  I  am  sure, 
cheer  up  the  most  melancholy  young  person  liv 
ing. 

"What  innocent  old  creatures  they  are!  I 
wonder,  Cissy,  if  you  and  Philip  do  properly  ap 
preciate  your  parents  and  the  simple,  beautiful 
lives  they  have  lived  out  here  in  the  country. 
Few  people  have  more  of  hard  work  or  of  skill 
ful  management  to  their  credit;  and  yet  they 
have  always  taken  time  for  books  and  flowers. 
How  perfectly  mated  they  are,  how  wholly  as 
one  in  their  efforts  to  give  their  children  the  best 
that  the  world  affords  in  the  wray  of  opportunity 
for  knowledge  and  culture.  Let  me  tell  you,  if 
they  had  had  no  children  to  rear  and  educate, 

120 


A  Letter  to  Cecilia 

they  would  have  realized  many  years  earlier  their 
dream  of  European  travel. 

"How  it  must  add  to  their  happiness  to  find 
that  you  are  coining  home  with  them ;  that  at  the 
most  you  will  not  be  separated  from  them  hence 
forth  by  more  than  a  few  hours'  journey. 

"Today,  as  I  sit  thinking  of  you,  the  years 
that  are  past  come  thronging  upon  me  with  more 
than  their  ordinary  insistence.  I  see  myself, 
young  in  years  but  aged  and  worn  by  the  feverish 
existence  of  the  Latin  Quarter,  seeking  health 
through  the  'back  to  nature'  process  on  the  farm 
of  my  father's  old  friend.  I  see  you,  a  girl  of 
nine,  with  your  hair  in  one  long  pig-tail  down 
your  back.  It  was  the  honor  and  glory  of  im 
parting  to  you — wonderful,  wide-eyed  child  of 
genius  that  you  were! — all  that  some  years  of 
the  ateliers  had  taught  me  that  more  than  half 
decided  me  to  become  your  permanent  next-door 
neighbor.  The  lesser  argument  was  the  realiza 
tion  that  I  had  found  my  line  and  that  the  life 
of  woods  and  fields  was  the  life  for  me.  A  few 
years  more  of  the  Quarter,  and  there  would  have 
been  little  left  of  me,  body  or  soul.  It  is  hard 
for  you,  perhaps,  to  understand  this,  since 
glimpses  at  most  are  all  you  get  of  the  aspects  of 
life  with  which  I  came  in  close — alas!  over 
whelming — contact.  Yet  on  the  other  hand  per 
haps  you  do  understand,  for  even  the  glimpses 
aro  enough,  poor  child,  to  induce  in  you  the  pro 
found  dissatisfaction  voiced  in  your  last  letter. 
At  least,  this  seems  to  me  a  probable  explana 
tion  of  your  melancholy. 

121 


Tillicum  Tales 

"How  can  I  ever  be  grateful  enough  to  you, 
Cissy,  and  to  your  dear  people,  for  these  happy 
years  that  I  have  known?  For  while  I  taught 
you  to  paint  I  was  taught  the  practical  acquaint 
ance  with  nature  and  the  sound  and  rational 
view-points  of  wholesome,  out-of-door  people,  as 
well  as  many  other  things  that  make  for  true 
wisdom  and  spiritual  culture. 

"And  then,  forsooth,  you  must  needs  upset 
the  well-ordered  serenity  of  our  lives  with  your 
ambition!  Mea  culpa!  Mea  culpa!  I  was 
your  abettor — I  confess  it.  I  helped  you  to  per 
suade  your  father  and  mother  and  Phil  to  let  you 
go — but  then  all  of  us  loved  you  too  well  to  wish 
to  fetter  your  wings.  And  I  knew  that  with 
your  strength  of  character  and  purpose,  and  the 
sound  common-sense  that  your  rearing  had  bred, 
you  would  pass  through  even  the  student-life  of 
Paris  'unspotted  from  the  world.'  Ah!  and  I 
wanted  you  to  achieve  success  and  fame.  Not 
that  these  have  much  intrinsic  worth,  but  that 
they  are  assuredly  valuable  inasmuch  as  they  are 
an  inspiration  to  further  and  better  work. 

"Yet,  Cissy  (I  have  never  confessed  this  to 
you  before,  have  I?),  after  I  had  settled  you  in 
Paris  the  journey  home  was  most  dismal;  and 
often  and  often  the  old  tormenting  question  har 
assed  me,  Is  it  worth  while?  But  that  is  all 
past  now.  Your  success  has  been  more  than  even 
we  dared  hope;  of  the  three  young  American 
women  who  exhibited  this  year  your  name  is  men 
tioned  the  oftenest  and  with  the  most  unqualified 
distinction — and  you  only  twenty-two!  Oh,  yes, 

122 


A  Letter  to  Cecilia 

it  was  well  worth  while,  dear,  for  now  it  is  all 
over — and  you  are  coming  home! 

"I  have  been  alone  all  day — not  a  soul  but  me 
on  either  farm.  The  apple-trees  are  in  full  blos 
som,  and  everybody  is  away  on  some  mysterious 
errand  of  his  own.  Phil  leaves  nothing  to  be 
desired  in  his  management  of  the  farm — I  doubt 
if  even  his  father  could  do  better — and  all  the 
week  works  so  hard  as  to  be  quite  above  criticism 
in  that  regard;  but  when  Sunday  comes — well, 
you  know,  'In  the  spring  a  young  man's  fancy.' 
He  goes  early  in  the  morning  and  returns  after 
the  rest  of  us  are  abed;  so  you  see  it  is  a  serious 
matter.  The  girl  seems  a  nice  sort,  and  will 
doubtless  make  you  a  fairly  satisfactory  sister- 
in-law  ;  but  naturally  I  am  inclined  to  be  captious 
where  Phil  is  concerned. 

"I  wonder,  Cissy  dear,  if  you  think  of  me  as 
a  decidedly  elderly  fellow.  I  suppose  I  am  get 
ting  older  every  day,  but  somehow  it's  mighty 
hard  to  realize  the  fact. 

"Au  revoir,  little  girl.  Three  weeks  from 
tonight  we'll  surely  be  together! 

"Your  ever  affectionate  Van." 

He  sealed  and  directed  the  envelope,  then 
took  his  pipe  and  went  out  on  the  veranda  to 
smoke.  It  was  the  lingering  twilight  of  a  day  in 
late  spring.  A  slender  moon  had  begun  its  west 
ering  descent;  the  freshly  browsed  grass  of  the 
pasture,  the  blossom-laden  trees  of  the  orchard, 
wafted  their  delicate  odors  to  him  through  the 
still  air.  In  great  content  he  sat  and  dreamed 
of  the  day  so  near  at  hand,  when  he  should  see 

123 


Tillicum  Tales 

again  in  the  flesh  the  girl  whose  dear,  question 
ing  eyes  looked  at  him  from  the  pictured  face 
above  the  writing-table. 

What  would  she  say  when  he  told  her  all  his 
heart?  Never  yet  had  he  breathed  a  word  of 
his  love:  he  had  chosen,  against  all  the  pro 
testations  of  his  passionate  heart,  to  leave  her 
bright  youth  free  as  air.  Love's  turn  would 
come  later,  he  had  told  himself,  when  art  and 
ambition  had  had  theirs.  He  must  be  perfectly 
fair,  must  bide  his  time  till  the  day  when  he 
should  be  justly  entitled  to  claim  his  own,  if  in 
truth  Cecilia  and  he  were  meant  for  each  other, 
as  seemed  to  him  so  clearly  obvious.  Not  that 
he,  or  any  other  man  for  that  matter,  was  worthy 
of  her;  but  who  could  love  her  better  than  he, 
and  who  could  understand  her  half  so  well?  So 
ideal  an  intimacy  had  always  existed  between 
them,  so  close  a  sympathy,  that  such  a  little, 
little  more  was  needed  to  weld  their  souls  to 
gether  in  the  bond  of  passion. 

The  pain  of  her  absence  was  all  past  now; 
she  was  coming  home — coming  to  him — coming 
of  her  own  free  will.  The  time  remaining  was 
too  scant  to  signify;  she  was  all  but  here — his 

girl,  his  beauty,  his  own  little  artist  love ! 
******* 

"Hello,  Van !  Enjoying  the  young  May  moon 
by  your  lonesome?" 

A  tall  figure  came  around  the  corner  of  the 
house  and  up  the  steps. 

Thus  rudely  aroused,  the  dreamer  returned 
to  consciousness  of  the  present. 

124 


A  Letter  to  (Vr ///</. 

"You  already,  Phil?  What  means  this  early 
desertion  of  your  fiancee?" 

"Yes,  it  is  a  little  early,  I  admit,"  the  young 
fellow  replied,  helping  himself  to  a  chair.  "The 
fact  is,"  he  said  hesitatingly,  "I  hurried  back 
because  I  have  some  news  for  you  that  I  didn't 
feel  I  ought  to  delay  very  long  in  delivering. 
I'm  afraid  I  don't  consider  it  altogether  good 
news,  though,"  he  added  a  little  ruefully.  "I 
don't  know  what  you  will  think." 

"Why,  what's  the  trouble?"  exclaimed  the 
older  man,  made  vaguely  uneasy  by  the  other's 
tone. 

••NVell,  on  my  way  through  the  village  this 
morning  I  stopped  at  the  post  office  and  found  a 
letter  from  the  folks — that  is,  from  mother  and 
Cissy — and  a  note  enclosed  from  Cissy  to  you. 
I  suppose  you  might  as  well  get  the  news  from 
her  direct" 

He  drew  an  envelope  from  his  pocket,  ex 
tracted  a  small  folded  sheet  from  its  contents, 
and  handed  it  to  his  friend,  who,  thoroughly 
agitated  now,  received  it  with  shaking  fingers. 
Unaccompanied  by  Philip,  who  lit  a  cigar  and  sat 
smoking  moodily,  he  went  into  the  sitting-room 
and  lit  the  lamp. 

Thus  had  Cissy  written: 

"Dearest  Van : — Before  you  read  this  I  shall 
have  become  a  married  woman.  For  full  details 
you  are  to  read  mother's  and  my  letters  to  Philip ; 
but,  hurried  as  I  am,  I  must  send  you  a  line  for 
yourself,  my  dear  old  Van,  to  explain  that  last 
wretched,  gloomy  letter  of  mine.  I  can't  re- 

125 


Tillicum  Tales 

member  all  I  said,  but  I  believe  among  other 
things  I  threatened  to  come  home.  I  was  very 
unhappy  when  I  wrote;  there  was  a  misunder 
standing  between  him  and  me  (something  that 
neither  of  us  was  really  to  blame  for)  which 
just  at  that  time  had  reached  its  blackest,  most 
desperate  stage. 

"Just  a  day  or  two  after  I  had  written  that 
letter  all  was  made  clear  between  us,  and  when 
mother  and  father  arrived  we  begged  them  to  let 
us  be  married  while  they  were  here,  so  that  the}* 
could  see  us  nicely  settled  before  they  returned 
home.  For  once  it  was  pretty  hard  to  bring 
them  my  way;  but  when  they  came  to  look  into 
the  matter  thoroughly — to  learn  what  he  is 
thought  of  as  artist  and  man — they  finally  re 
lented.  Really,  Van,  he  is  going  to  be  a  great 
man;  indeed  he  is  a  great  man  already.  It 
seems  to  me  that  a  young  couple  could  scarcely 
have  a  more  encouraging  outlook  than  ours. 

"We  shall  live  in  Paris  for  the  present — prob 
ably  for  some  years  to  come.  After  that,  our 
plans  are  uncertain. 

"Write  to  me  soon,  my  best  of  friends,  and 
wish  me  happiness! 

"Ever  your  loving  Cissy." 

The  bit  of  paper  slipped  through  his  nerve 
less  fingers  to  the  floor.  For  a  space  his  brain 
was  literally  lapped  in  unconsciousness  by  the 
sudden  upward  surge  of  frightful  anguish.  Then 
he  pulled  himself  together  and  extinguished  the 
light— Phil  must  not  see  his  face! 

126 


A  Letter  to  Cecilia 

As  he  returned  to  the  veranda  the  young 
man  looked  up  with  the  question : 

"What  do  you  think  of  it?'7 

"I  can't  form  an  opinion  on  such  short  no 
tice."  His  voice  sounded  unfamiliar  even  to 
himself,  and  he  wondered  bitterly  if  he  could  not 
keep  even  a  thoughtless  young  fellow  like  Phil 
from  suspecting  how  it  was  with  him.  But  he 
went  bravely  on:  "By  the  way,  I  finished  a 
letter  to  her  an  hour  or  so  ago.  I  suppose  it 
might  as  well  go  along  just  as  it  is — I  can  add 
a  postscript  wishing  her  joy.  Isn't  that  your 
horse  whinnying,  Phil?  He  wants  to  get  back 
to  his  stable." 


127 


Five  Dollars 

BY 
FRANCETTE   MA  RING 


Five  Dollars 


DOLLARS!  Yes,  children,  Miss  Giv- 
ens  gave  me  a  five-dollar  gold  piece  and 
told  me  to  spend  it  the  way  that  would 
do  us  the  most  good." 

A  minute's  silence,  almost  consternation  fol 
lowed  this  announcement — then  Tom  Mulligan 
turned  a  hand-spring  (his  specialty),  Sam  and 
Susan  grasped  hands  and  spun  around  until  both 
fell  over  dizzy — and  big  Harry  clapped  his  hands. 

"What  shall  we  do  with  it?" 

"I  say,  Ma,"  said  Susan,  "Let's  do  have  a 
ride  in  one  of  them  mobile  things.  They  are 
just  five  dollars  an  hour  and  each  one  of  us  would 
have  as  much  fun  as  the  other  one." 

"Good!  Good!  Goodie!"  shouted  the  young 
tribe. 

Mrs.  Mulligan  had  longed  for  a  ride  in  one 
of  those  wonderful  horseless  vehicles,  but  would 
hardly  have  suggested  that  way  of  spending  this 
particular  gold-piece. 

Big  Harry,  who  sold  evening  papers  on  the 
street  corners,  had  more  idea  of  the  value  of  five 
dollars  than  the  mother  and  the  other  children 
combined  and  he  suggested  that  they  hold  the 
money  for  winter  necessities. 

131 


Tillicum  Tales 

"No!  No!"  That  didn't  suit  the  family  and  it 
was  decided,  amid  shouts  of  pleasure,  that  a  ride 
in  an  automobile  was  to  be  the  order  of  the  day. 
Harry  submitted  to  the  plan  and  started  to  the 
Broadway  garage  to  hire  the  machine. 

Now,  it  so  happened  that  Pat  Moriarty  was 
chauffeur  for  a  wealthy  citizen;  his  master,  who 
was  the  owner  of  a  big  white  steamer,  was  out  of 
town  and  Pat  had  been  left  in  charge.  He  and 
Harry  had  had  many  a  chat  on  Second  Avenue, 
one  holding  down  the  auto  and  the  other  the 
street  corner,  the  latter  occasionally  yelling: 
"Times — Star.  All  about  the  suicide.  Paper, 
mister? — Times,  sir?  Star?" 

Harry  hailed,  "Hello,  Pat,  we  want  to  git 
one  of  them  machines  to  take  the  family  out. 
Who  is  a  good  driver?" 

Pat  looked  wise  and  thinking  the  matter  a 
joke,  said:  "I'll  take  yees." 

"Shure,  Pat?" 

"Shure,  Harry,  for  the  same  price  as  the 
other  fellows,  five  dollars  an  hour." 

Harry,  to  Pat's  utter  bewilderment,  handed 
him  the  gold-piece  and  then  Pat  began  to  won 
der  what  kind  of  a  furore  would  follow  if  his 
master  should  ever  know  that  he  took  the  Mul 
ligan  family  out  in  his  white  steamer,  but  he 
was  true  to  his  bargain  and  called  for  them  at 
two  o'clock. 

When  Harry  returned  to  the  family  and  de 
scribed  the  beautiful  auto  in  which  they  were  to 
have  a  ride,  excitement  reigned  supreme. 

132 


/•'/re  Dollars 

Such  a  washing  of  hands,  faces,  yes,  and 
feet,  was  never  experienced  in  that  household. 
To  be  sure,  when  finished  there  was  a  streak  of 
black  on  the  outer  rim  of  every  ear  and  a  streak 
at  the  neckline,  but  the  family  posed  as  clean, 
and  they  were  decidedly  so  for  the  Mulligans. 

Jack  and  Sam  each  found  stockings  but  had 
only  one  pair  of  shoes,  and  they  wrestled  to  see 
who  should  wear  them.  Jack  won  and  Sam  was 
inconsolable  until  he  spied  an  old  pair  of  Harry's 
oxfords.  He  donned  them  in  glee.  Fit  or  misfit 
didn't  count — only  covering. 

Susan  wanted  very  much  to  wear  a  veil  and 
her  mother's  gloves,  and  Mrs.  Mulligan,  feeling 
especially  good  tempered,  allowed  her  to  have  one 
of  her  gloves. 

"I  say,  give  Ma  her  other  glove,  looks  as  if 
you  haint  got  no  hand  and  fastened  that  glove 
on  your  wrist  cause  you  didn't  have  a  wooden 
hand."  But  Susan's  pride  was  supreme  and  the 
glove  suited  her. 

"Ma,  you  must  have  something  tied  around 
your  hat.  I  never  seed  a  lady  a-riding  in  style 
without,  and  I'm  the  only  girl  and  I  want  some 
thing  too." 

Mrs.  Mulligan  and  Susan  hauled  out  some 
things  that  had  been  left  by  charitable  ladies  to 
be  made  over  for  Susan. 

i  Mrs.  Mulligan  had  no  machine  and  didn't 
have  much  time  except  to  do  washing  for  a  fam 
ily  for  recompense.) 

Such  things  to  search  among  for  a  veil,  waists 
and  waists,  boned  and  boned  and  cut  in  such  tiny 

133 


Tillicum  Tales 

pieces,  bits  of  lace,  worn  out  hose,  old  jackets, 
long  past  any  use,  in  fact,  many  garments  fit 
only  for  patch  work — but — yes — it  will  do,  a  dim 
ity  dress  skirt — not  all  gored  into  bits — almost 
the  only  thing  in  the  collection  which  could  be 
utilized  for  a  dress  for  Susan.  It  could  be  torn 
into  strips  and  used  on  their  hats,  and  they  felt 
quite  elated  over  the  success. 

The  clock  on  the  shelf  struck  two  and  at  the 
same  moment  Pat  blew  his  Gabriel  horn.  The 
excited  family  scrambled  in  and  filled  both  seats. 
Pat's  eyes  twinkled;  he  saw  a  bit  of  fun  ahead. 
"Shure,  and  we  all  had  the  toime  of  our  lives," 
said  Pat,  when  he  returned  the  Mulligans  to 
their  home  at  three  o'clock. 

Pat  had  another  surprise.  Mr.  Givens,  his 
master,  was  awaiting  him  at  the  garage.  He  had 
been  informed  of  the  use  his  beautiful  white  car 
had  been  put  to  and  poor  Pat  was  summarily 
dismissed. 

A  fe\v  days  later  the  philanthropic  Miss  Giv 
ens  called  again  upon  the  family.  She  was  re 
galed  with  a  most  thrilling  story  of  the  ride  her 
five  dollars  had  bought  for  the  Mulligans.  "Gee, 
but  we  whizzed  round  the  corners."  "The  auto 
was  a  big  white  beauty."  "You  gave  us  such 
fun,  Miss  Givens."  The  young  lady  was  really 
overwhelmed  with  their  exhuberance. 

That  evening  she  entertained  the  guests  at 
dinner  by  a  very  comical  description  of  the  use 
the  money  had  been  put  to  and  her  father  leaned 
back  from  the  table  and  laughed  as  she  had  never 
thought  him  capable  of  laughing.  Then  he  told 

134 


Fire  Dollar* 

story  of  Pat,  and  after  a  conference  it  was 
agreed,  with  a  proviso,  that  Pat  should  be  rein 
stated. 

The  proviso  was  that  Pat  must  buy  a  ton  of 
coal  with  that  five  dollars  and  send  it  to  the  Mul 
ligans, 


135 


The  Taming  of  the 
Barons 

BY 
CORA    CHASE    CHARLTON 


"Below,  a  gracefully  rounded  valley.' 


The  Taming  of  the 
Barons 


CHAPTER  I. 

EKE  in  the  great  northwest,  no  less 
than  in  the  more  exploited  south 
west,  romance  after  romance  has 
been  weaving  its  vivid  color  into 
local  history  until  it  would  seem 
that  every  acre  must  represent 
something  worth  telling. 

How  John  Oswald,  he  of  the  baronly  blood, 
came  to  leave  off  "promiscuous  peregrinations" 
for  "pastoral  pursuits,"  as  he  once  expressed  it, 
mid  how,  later,  he  came  to  yield  up  his  gay  bach 
elorhood,  may  be  one  of  the  things  worth  telling. 
John  was  a  queer  mixture  to  find  in  the  wilds 
of  the  "Inland  Empire"  twelve  years  ago;  for 
anybody  who  saw  his  particular  locality  in  those 
days  would  have  said  "wilderness."  A  look  at 
his  present  time  ranch  with  its  luxurious  homo, 
helpers'  thrifty  cottages,  magnificent  orchards 
and  Columbia  River  steamers  loading  almost 
tropical  fruit  for  less  favored  regions,  would  sug 
gest  anything  but  that. 

139 


Tillicum  Tales 

Remarkable  changes  one  might  say  to  have 
taken  place  in  so  short  a  time,  but  that  is  the 
West  and  the  charm  of  it.  If  the  man  has 
changed  as  much  as  the  landscape  it  can  be 
ascribed  to  the  old  transforming  power  of  love, 
no  less  potent  in  one  place  than  another. 

To  begin  with,  the  John  Oswald  one  saw  at 
first  glance  was  so  scholarly  and  esthetic  and  had 
such  classic  features  that  he  was  inconceivable 
off  the  stage  or  out  of  some  professional  career, 
and  more  than  one  man  had  been  deceived  to  his 
undoing  by  this  exterior,  for  there  was  another 
John  within  him  entirely  in  harmony  with  this 
wilderness,  and  in  every  way  a  consistent  de 
scendant  of  his  castle-storming,  boar-hunting, 
maiden  harrying  ancestors. 

To  account  for  him  at  all  one  was  forced  to 
consider  heredity ;  he  was  such  a  tantalizing  mix 
ture  of  amiability  and  temper,  of  winning  tender 
ness  and  bombastic  tyranny,  of  cautious  pru 
dence  and  whirlwind  changes. 

In  this  more  than  dual  personality,  then,  one 
might  trace  the  eternal  struggle  for  supremacy 
between  the  line  of  gruff  old  barons  on  his 
father's  side,  (himself  a  stormy  political  exile 
subdued  into  a  fiery  editorial  scribe  in  America) 
and  the  Priscilla-like  grand  dames  of  his  sweet 
little  New  England  mother. 

If  the  ultra  refined  New  York  aunt  and  uncle 
into  whose  care  he  and  his  modest  estate  fell 
when  he  was  ten,  had  understood  boys  as  well  as 
estates  John's  history  might  have  been  different ; 
however,  his  conformity  to  their  well  meant  plans 

140 


The  Turn'mii  of  the  llnrun* 

for  his  future  seemed  the  accepted  state  of  af 
fairs  up  to  his  twenty-third  year.  Then  occurred 
what  one  might  call  "the  Baronial  Renaissance" 
and  things  happened.  New  York  and  his  cus 
tomary  routine  shrank  to  oppressive  limits,  and 
•  •very  fibre  of  his  young:  manhood  called  aloud 
for  a  more  tensely  active  physical  existence.  It 
came  over  him  that  there  was  nothing  big  enough 
and  untamed  enough  for  him  in  this  mood  but 
the  great  West, 

No  need  to  dwell  upon  the  indignant  disap 
pointment  of  John's  guardians  when  he  refused 
to  see  the  West  from  any  Pullman  window,  ho 
tel-piazza  standpoint,  but  insisted  on  going  forth 
an  adventurous  tenderfoot.  They  had  to  accept 
the  situation  under  the  comfortable  delusion  that 
six  months  of  it  would  suffice. 

The  succeeding  two  years  only  confirmed 
John  in  the  adventuring  habit,  and  the  end 
of  that  time  found  him  the  tacit  leader  of  a 
party  of  prospectors  leaving  the  railroad  termi 
nus  at  Spokane  Falls  (now  the  bright  thriving 
city,  crisp  Spokane)  for  a  trip  into  the  heart 
of  the  Cascades. 

To  the  present  day  tourist,  who  is  whisked 
from  the  park-like  pleasantries  of  the  Spokane 
region  into  the  Cascade  scenery  in  less  than  a 
half  day's  time,  the  intermediary  landscape  of 
fers  just  the  right  touch  of  contrast ;  to  John  and 
his  party,  with  their  trailing  pack  horses  it 
seemed  an  interminable  stretch  of  sagebrush  and 
sand,  ending,  as  they  neared  the  Columbia  River, 
in  a  veritable  desert,  where  even  the  sagebrush 

141 


Tillicum  Tales 

admitted  defeat  before  the  hot  sand  and  piles  of 
crumbling  rock  formation.  Beyond  this  mighty 
Hudson  of  the  West  the  country  changed  for  the 
better,  and  there  lay  the  bit  of  landscape  that 
was  responsible  for  John's  new  tack. 

After  crossing  the  river,  which  was  accomp 
lished  with  the  aid  of  an  Indian  guide  and  his 
craft,  they  followed  for  some  miles  up  stream  the 
"Cultus  trail,"  a  particularly  difficult  route 
which  hugged  the  river,  at  one  moment  leading 
them  along  the  edge  of  a  precipice,  the  next 
through  some  tunneled  passageway  under  an  in 
surmountable  obstruction. 

In  few  but  telling  words  the  Indian  guide  pic 
tured  to  them  the  occasion  when  nature's  violence 
left  this  indestructable  record  of  her  angry  mood ; 
for  within  his  memory  had  a  great  mountain, 
started  by  volcanic  disturbances,  toppled  over 
into  the  stream,  completely  darning  it  for  a  few 
hours,  so  that  its  bed  could  be  crossed,  like  the 
Red  Sea  of  old,  dryshod. 

To  be  sure  the  sweeping  river  of  turquois 
tints,  the  swelling  foothills  and  their  timber, 
climaxed  by  the  glistening  snow-capped  peaks 
of  the  range,  gave  the  scene  plenty  of  grandeur, 
but  the  "near  to"  was  mighty  repelling  John 
thought,  and  he  "cussed"  mildly  as  his  cayuse 
strained  along. 

Then,  with  scarcely  any  intimation  of  what 
was  coming,  there  lay,  hundreds  of  feet  below 
them,  a  gracefully  rounded  valley  in  emerald 
contrast  to  the  surrounding  colorless  landscape. 
It  nestled  amid  a  bulwark  of  frowning,  craggy 

142 


The  TnmiHij  of  thr 

bluffs  except  where  the  Columbia  swept  one  sec 
tion  of  its  circle.  Here  soft  grasses  and  decid 
uous  trees  grew  flourishingly.  The  reason  was 
not  far  to  seek.  A  generous  spring  seeped  out  of 
a  bluff  and  watered  the  valley  to  perfection. 

The  guide  pointed  to  this  valley  as  the  site 
of  the  night's  camp,  and  slowly  zigzaging  down 
the  trail  they  reached  its  welcome  level  and  re 
freshing  verdure,  and  soon  most  of  them  turned 
their  attention  from  the  camp  fire  and  supper  to 
their  blankets.  Not  so  John,  for  something  in 
that  valley  struck  an  answering  response  in  his 
heart  right  from  the  start,  neither  was  it  all  due 
to  sentiment,  for  while  the  average  man  in  the 
region  knew  nothing  or  talked  nothing  but  gold, 
John's  keen  eyes  had  taken  in  the  surprising  re 
sults  apparent  where  a  little  water  had  been  ap 
plied  to  the  rich  volcanic  soil  through  the  mde 
system  of  irrigation  in  use  by  the  settlers. 

As  moonlight  chanced  to  lend  its  enchantment 
to  the  scene  that  night  he  strode  back  and  forth 
for  an  hour  or  so  before  betaking  himself  to  his 
saddle  pillow  and  blankets.  The  burden  of  his 
Bub-conscious  soliloquy  must  have  been  some 
thing  after  this  fashion,  "delightful  nook  of  na 
ture's  contriving,  what  a  beautiful  retreat  you 
might  prove.  Imagination  pictures  you  some 
feudal  stronghold,"  (the  baronly  instinct  no 
doubt  recognized  the  resemblance),  "with  walls, 
and  moat  and  pinnacles  of  rock  for  towers  at  the 
only  two  approaches.  A  veritable  little  kingdom 
set  apart  for  some  man  to  claim.  Say!  blest  if 
I  don't  do  it  myself." 

143 


Tillicum  Tales 

His  companions,  who  loved  and  hated  John 
by  turns,  knew  his  idiosyncracies  pretty  well  by 
that  time  but  even  they  were  a  dumbfounded 
group,  when,  next  morning  he  coolly  announced 
that  they  might  ride  on,  as  he  had  decided  to 
stake  his  claim  right  where  he  stood,  and  with 
just  as  good  prospects  as  though  he  should  search 
the  Cascades  'till  doomesday. 

No  explanation  as  to  beautiful  scenery  or 
rich  soil  reached  their  unsentimental  souls,  or  al 
layed  the  suspicions  of  some,  that  John  had  se 
cretly  discovered  "showings"  in  the  valley. 
Finding  arguments  in  vain,  (how  the  New  York 
relatives  could  have  sympathized),  and  more 
over  seeing  the  ire  beginning  to  rise  in  John's 
eyes,  they  rode  reluctantly  on,  leaving  John  his 
share  of  accoutrements  and  vainly  wondering 
what  there  was  in  that  particular  spot  to  have 
locoed  their  leader. 

And  right  there  John  stayed,  as  much  to  his 
own  surprise  as  anyone's,  finding  in  the  contrast 
of  ruggedness  and  dainty  beauty  that  surrounded 
him  something  satisfying  to  the  extremes  in  his 
own  nature. 


144 


The  T<nnhi</  of  the  liaronx 


CHAPTER  II. 

Some  seasons  later,  spring  with  its  chorus  of 
meadow-larks  and  other  "up-to-date  attractions," 
was  lending  its  seductiveness  to  the  "Oswald 
Valley,"  as  it  came  to  be  called. 

As  the  result  of  considerable  energetic  work 
and  several  trips  out  to  civilization,  John  was 
basking  in  the  comforts  of  quite  a  well-appointed 
establishment.  He  kept  a  hired  man  to  "run 
things,"  and  John  "ran"  the  hired  man,  and  at 
a  lively  gait  by  times  when  both  work  and  amuse 
ment  palled  on  him,  and  even  a  hunt  was  voted 
dull  sport  by  the  barons.  He  enjoyed  no  com 
panionship  closer  than  that  of  his  horses,  dogs 
and  books. 

Then,  one  forenoon,  (there  is  no  room  for  sur 
prise  after  the  glimpses  given  of  John's  abrupt 
ness)  he  decided  that  now  was  a  suitable  time 
for  him  to  consider  matrimony !  He  approached 
the  subject  quite  in  the  cold-blooded  manner  to 
be  expected  of  one  to  whom  Cupid  was  a  total 
stranger.  The  ultimate  consummation  seemed 
advisable  and  even  desirable  but  the  intermedi 
ary  processes  of  courtship  for  instance,  loomed 
up  a  great  bore.  Another  proof  that  the  little 
god  had  no  hand  in  the  affair. 

The  fancied  "Mrs.  John  Oswald"  that  he 
finally  evolved  was  such  a  climax  of  perfection 

145 


Tillicum  Tales 

in  all  details  that  the  most  exalted  cult  of  any 
modern  city  might  have  been  searched  for  her 
in  vain.  John  ruefully  admitted  that  there 
might  be  some  difficulty  in  locating  her.  The 
solution  he  hit  upon  was  that  he  would  return  to 
the  New  York  fold  temporarily  and  pursue  his 
search.  Result,  his  aunt,  amid  the  smothery  re 
finements  of  her  New  York  home,  reading  aloud 
to  her  husband,  with  many  exclamatory  inter- 
spersions,  the  following: 

My  Esteemed  Aunt: 

How  well  I  am  punished  for  neglecting  you, 
by  finding  that  I  must  ask  a  favor. 

I  am  thinking  of  wintering  in  New  York  with 
a  view  to  furbishing  up  my  wardrobe  and  my 
gentility  generally.  Why  fence,  my  discerning 
aunt,  so  I  admit  that  I  am  considering  matri 
mony  and  would  enlist  your  good  judgment  and 
social  prestige  as  first  "aids"  in  the  necessary 
campaign. 

In  considering  the  suitable  party,  please  re 
member  that  the  one  positively  necessary  requis 
ite  must  be  educational  and  literary  attainments. 

Will  announce  my  further  plans  after  having 
heard  from  you  touching  this  letter's  contents. 
Your  returning  prodigal, 

JOHN  OSWTALD. 

"Philip,"  said  the  lady,  upon  finishing,  "if 
the  brilliant  Clara  La  Forge  can  not  teach  that 
complacent  goose  more  in  one  minute  about 
women  and  love  than  he  ever  knew  before,  I  am 
mistaken.  Cleverly  managed  and  we  will  have 

146 


77/r  Tninimj  <>f  fJir  llarona 

John  in  New  York  from  now  on  and  a  barbarian 
no  longer." 

But  Cupid,  the  sly,  knew  a  maneuvre  or  two 
of  his  own.  Realizing  that  no  field  is  more  favor 
able  for  his  activities  than  the  anomalous  social 
conditions  of  a  pioneer  region,  and  stung,  no 
doubt,  by  John's  slighting  oversight  of  his  right 
ful  share  in  such  an  affair,  he  was  lying  in  wail 
for  him  with  an  extra  quiver  full. 

Now  it  chanced  that  in  acquiring  a  title  to  his 
valley,  a  strip  of  twenty  acres  or  more  on  the 
south  side  was  not  included,  but  as  new  settlers 
were  rare  it  never  occurred  to  John  that  any 
other  mortal  might  lay  claim  to  anything  within 
that  natural  enclosure. 

One  balmy  morning,  as  this  would-be  "mon- 
arch-of-all-he-surveyed1'  rode  forth,  he  espied  a 
sin* ike  curling  up  from  the  strip;  not  strange,  ns 
prospectors  still  occasionally  camped  there,  but 
as  it  was  late  in  the  day  for  them  to  be  lingering, 
John  galloped  off  in  that  direction  to  investigate. 
He  looked  quite  the  landed  proprietor  with  his 
equestrian  boots,  good  mount,  and  powerful  Dane 
at  heels,  and  there  is  nothing  on  record  to  show 
that  he  was  not  vainly  conscious  of  the  part. 

Rounding  a  hillock  he  came  upon  a  sight  that 
brought  both  his  horse  and  his  breath  momentar 
ily  to  a  standstill;  for  a  typical  Arkansaw  mov 
er's  outfit  was  as  foreign  to  anything  in  John's 
experience  as  a  totem-pole  pedigree  would  be  to  a 
cotton  state  coon. 

A  small  tent  and  a  dilapidated  prairie 
schooner  were  disposed  with  a  view  to  perma- 

147 


TUlioum  Tales 

nence.  Domestic  utensils  lay  scattered  about. 
A  woman  was  cooking  over  a  camp-fire  and  two 
disheveled  children  were  having  a  rough  and 
tumble  play  with  at  least  five  hounds.  A  tired- 
looking  man  was  leading  a  pair  of  lean  and  har 
ness-worn  mules  up  from  the  ditch  stream.  They 
were  probably  the  first  the  region  ever  saw.  The 
hounds  set  up  a  great  howling,  and  the  group 
turned  and  saw  John  in  the  act  of  dismounting 
and  giving  his  Dane  a  cut  with  his  riding  whip, 
with  the  command,  "Stand  still,  sir!'7 

Either  the  appearance  of  the  group,  or  the 
impudence  of  the  hounds,  something,  started 
John  off  into  a  whirlwind  of  unreasonable  anger. 
Veritable  blue  blazes  shone  in  his  eyes.  Even 
the  hounds  slunk  away,  and  the  woman  halted  in 
her  hospitable  intention  of  greeting  the  stranger. 
The  man  looked  as  if  he  meditated  flight,  if  he 
had  been  in  the  habit  of  doing  anything  so  sudden 
and  energetic. 

After  the  barons  (per  John's  flashing  eyes) 
had  sufficiently  scorched  the  group,  he  burst 
forth :  "What  in  h — 1  do  you  call  this  layout ! 
Where  did  you  come  from  and  where  are  you 
trying  to  get  to?" 

After  a  few  choking  attempts  the  man  made 
audible  the  reply : 

"We  cum  frum  Arkinsaw;  that  is,  we've  bin 
a  cumin'  frum  than  off  an'  on  of  two  years.  We- 
uns  wuz  kalldlatin'  tuh  git  further  up  thuh  river 
to  thuh  Big  Bend  country,  but  ?t  seemed  like 
we'ud  got  tuh  stop  some  whah  now,  tuh  git  in  a 
crap.  Sis,  that  is,  we-uns,  we  liked  thuh  look  of 

148 


•••••••v 

"When  a  firm  but  musical  voice  called  from  the  tent  door." 


The  Taming  of  the  Barons 

this  here  level  an'  we  'lowed  we  could  squat,  but 
'course,  stranger,  ef  thuh  land  is  yourn  we'll 
vamoose." 

The  very  meekness  of  this  overture  seemed  to 
enrage  John  even  more.  He  fairly  yelled : 

"I  don't  own  the  land,  but  I'll  control  it, 
never  you  fear,  and  no  d — d  product  of  the  Ar- 
kansaw  swamps  shall  plant  himself  here.  ( Blank- 
ety,  blank,  blank!)  You  pull  out  of  here  you 
malarial,  clay-eating  refugee!" 

"Yes,  yes,  we  will  stranger.  Jest  give  us 
time  tuh  pick  up  our  traps,  won't  yuh?"  the  thor 
oughly  frightened  man  was  saying,  when  a  firm 
but  musical  voice  called  from  the  tent  door, 
"Paw."  "Paw"  turned  to  the  door  and  the  voice 
said  something  inaudible  to  John,  whatever  it 
was,  it  acted  like  magic  on  the  man's  spinal  col 
umn.  He  very  perceptibly  stood  more  erect,  and 
actually  looked  John  in  the  eye  as  he  said :  "Ef 
I  understand  you  tuh  say,  stranger,  that  the  land 
ain't  yourn,  by  what  rights  can  you  order  we-uns 
off  like  we  wuz  dogs.  Sis  says,  that  is  we-uns 
say,  that  we  air  agoin'  tuh  stay  till  somebody 
shows  rights  tuh  order  us  off." 

Fairly  gasping  from  this  burst  of  nerve,  he 
began  to  look  as  if  he  might  weaken,  when  the 
female  of  the  tent,  garbed  in  calico  mother-hub- 
bard  and  sunbonnet,  (which  reveals  little), 
stepped  forward  composedly,  held  out  a  splint- 
bottomed  chair,  and  said  in  tones  of  honeyed 
mischief: 

"Paw,  invite  the  stranger  to  set  while  he's 
stoppin'  at  we-all's." 

149 


Tillicam  Tales 

With  an  actual  snort  of  rage  John  strode  off, 
flung  himself  onto  his  horse  and  galloped  away, 
vaguely  planning  to  return  with  his  shotgun  and 
drive  the  intruders  back  to  Arkansaw.  Increas 
ing  moments  cooled  his  wrhite  heat  of  anger,  how 
ever,  and  he  decided  that  instead  he  would  turn 
the  water  off  from  the  strip,  leaving  them  with 
out  a  supply. 

Next  morning  this  course  looked  small  to  him. 
Several  days  passed,  but  John  did  not  deign  to 
glance  in  the  direction  of  the  strip,  although  he 
had  reminders  by  way  of  baying  hounds  and  the 
reports  of  a  shotgun  in  the  direction  of  his  grouse 
roost  that  kept  his  temper  peppery.  Something 
must  be  done.  He  would  buy  them  off.  Why 
had  he  not  thought  of  that  sooner?  He  would 
attend  to  it  at  once. 

His  part  of  the  plan  wrorked  beautifully.  He 
rode  up  to  the  camp  jauntily  and  smiling  the 
smile  that  won  men.  He  called  out  the  paternal 
head  of  the  family,  apologized  handsomely,  ad 
mitted  their  rights,  and  named  a  sum  for  their 
prospective  ownership  that  made  the  eyes  of  the 
man,  who  seemed  in  a  receptive  mood,  brighten; 
when  the  same  summons  came  from  the  tent  door, 
and  he  again  received  a  galvanic  charge. 

John  expected  a  demand  for  a  larger  sum. 
Instead  the  camper  struck  an  attitude,  and  in  the 
most  dignified  tone  he  could  command,  an 
nounced  that  he  and  his  family  intended  to  leave 
the  valley  that  very  day,  "An'  not  because  they 
wuz  bought  out  nuther,  but  because  Sis,  that  is 
we-uns,  we  don't  care  tuh  stay  in  no  such  neigh- 

150 


77/r  Tnmintj  of  the  Barons 

hnrhood.  An'  as  for  takin'  your  pay,  Sis,  that 
is  we-alls,  we  wouldn't  tech  it  with  no  ten-foot 
pole." 

In  spite  of  himself,  John  blazed  up  afresh 
and  said : 

"You  darned  travesty  of  a  man,  next  time  I 
come  to  do  business  with  you  I'll  call  for  'Sis' 
in  the  first  place."  With  which  thrust  John  was 
obliged  to  content  himself,  and  for  the  second 
time  left  in  a  discomposed  and  routed  frame  of 
mind. 

The  next  day  nothing  remained  of  the  camp 
ers  but  the  smouldering  embers  of  their  fire. 
John  heard  of  them  as  having  "squatted"  on 
"Three-Mile  Flat,"  a  locality  some  five  miles 
<!<>\vn  the  same  side  of  the  river,  where  a  scant 
amount  of  moisture  made  cultivation  possible. 

To  John's  credit  be  it  said  he  felt  a  twinge  of 
pity  for  the  man  who  bore  so  plainly  the  stamp 
of  "inefficient,"  trying  in  his  weak  way  to  wrest  a 
living  from  the  thirsty  soil,  and  within  a  stone's 
throw  of  the  unattainable  volumes  of  water  pour 
ing  down  the  Columbia. 

The  more  he  thought  of  it,  the  more  he  felt 
that  it  would  salve  his  dignity  and  relieve  his 
sympathies  if  he  could  do  them  some  favor.  So 
he  sent  his  hired  man  off  leading  a  young  cow 
i  valuable  and  scarce  then),  with  a  message  to 
the  effect  that  he  felt  indebted  to  them  to  that 
extent,  and  would  they  please  accept  with  his 
compliments.  Mr.  Sibley,  for  that  was  his  name, 
took  her,  dubiously,  before  consulting  his  family. 

151 


Tillicum  Tales 

Next  morning  when  John  got  up,  the  cow 
was  tied  to  his  fence.  He  only  ejaculated :  "Its 
that  Sis,  blame  such  idiots !" 


152 


The  Taming  of  the  Barons 


CHAPTER  III. 

It  was  a  month  later  that  John  saw  a  yel 
low  cayuse,  whose  rider  it  puzzled  him  to  iden 
tify,  come  loping  up  the  valley.  It  was  not  a 
white  man,  an  Indian  nor  a  kloochman;  and 
that  exhausted  the  list  of  probabilities.  Then 
it  became  clear  that  the  doubtful  head-gear  was 
a  sunbonnet  and  the  rider  a  woman  using  a  side 
saddle. 

"Holy  smoke!  It  is  a  Sibley!  To  what  am 
I  indebted  for  this  honor,  I  wonder?" 

It  was  a  Sibley,  and  Sis  at  that. 

John  made  no  move  to  assist  her  in  alight 
ing,  but  sat  aloof  waiting  her  approach. 

It  was  like  Sis,  once  there,  to  advance  with 
out  apparent  hesitation  or  timidity,  although 
nothing  short  of  a  life  and  death  matter  to  her 
would  have  brought  her.  Her  shapely  if  rough 
ened  hands  betrayed  some  nervousness  as  she 
fingered  the  birch  switch  she  carried,  but  the 
sunbonnet  (of  the  "slat"  variety)  presented  an 
unmoved  front. 

Xearing  John,  but  without  looking  up,  she 
spoke;  her  voice  unexpectedly  soft  and  low;  the 
lingo  (a  modification  of  her  parents')  something 
new  to  John.  No  manner  of  spelling  conveys  it, 
but  the  softness  of  the  accents  well  nigh  dis- 

153 


Tillicum  Tales 

pelled  the  shock  from  her  rending  of  good  Eng 
lish. 

"Mistah  Oswald,"  she  began,  "I  ain't  letting 
on  I  don't  hate  you,  for  I  do;  but  our  little  Jim" 
(slightly  tremolo)  "is  sick.  Maw  says  that  if  he 
had  somethin'  to  eat  'sides  sech  as  we-alls  have, 
he  might  get  bettah.  Could  you"  (decidedly 
smothery  now)  "sell  Paw  that  COWT?  We  kaint 
pay  you  now,  but  we  shorely  will,"  (desperate 
inflection). 

For  a  moment  the  hands  clasped  and  unclasp 
ed  themselves  in  agitation  over  this  self-imposed 
task,  but  the  sunbonnet  remained  cool.  Some 
illusion  John  had  held  about  the  age  and  temper 
of  the  speaker  faded  away  at  the  girlish  tones, 
and  he  mellowed  up,  as  we  all  do,  under  the  sen 
sation  of  having  a  proud  spirit  humble  itself 
before  us. 

"Have  her?  Why,  of  course,  you  can  have 
her.  Blamed  nonsense  that  you  haven't  had  her 
all  this  while.  Come  to  think  of  it,  you  can't 
have  her — that  is,  unless  you  promise  to  say  no 
more  about  pay.  That  is  how  much  I  care  for 
your — 'hate'  did  you  say,  Miss — ah — Miss  Sib- 
ley?" 

"Paw  will  git  huh"  (loftily  and  no  mention 
of  thanks). 

John's  gallantry  revived,  and  to  the  girl's  dis 
comfort  he  insisted  on  holding  the  cayuse  by 
the  bits  while  she  mounted;  a  proceeding  so  un 
necessary  considering  the  starved  and  reluctant 
condition  of  the  Sibley  animals  that  spring,  that 

154 


The  Tatnlntj  of  the  Barons 

he  was  to  be  suspected  of  wanting  to  catch  a 
glimpse  of  the  features  inside  the  sunbonnet. 

The  Sibley  family  was  of  a  class  only  com 
prehensible  to  the  long-time  Southerner.  Oth 
ers  group  all  of  the  South's  illiterates  under 
the  one  head — upoor  white  trash" — but  the 
understanding  know  that  some  unaccountably 
proud  blood  flows  in  the  veins  of  families  whose 
social  status,  if  gauged  by  scholarliness,  would 
be  "nil." 

From  such  an  one  came  Mrs.  Sibley.  Once 
within  the  breastworks  of  a  truly  formidable 
family  reserve,  one  found  that  Mrs.  Sibley  had 
wonderful  qualities  as  a  born  hostess  and  moth 
er,  a  conserver  of  hope  and  cheerfulness,  and 
hearty  friendliness  that  could  win  over  even  a 
critical  grammarian  and  send  him  away  thaweil 
to  the  marrow.  Poverty  could  not  utterly  dis 
pel  the  comfort  of  a  home  where  her  geniality 
was  the  keynote.  Even  behind  the  rather  high 
white  forehead  of  "Paw"  Sibley  lay  sensibilities 
along  the  line  of  morals  and  emotions  that  would 
dwarf  by  comparison  those  of  many  a  shrewd 
and  educated  man  of  affairs. 

Whatever  misfortunes  had  followed  them, 
one  thing  the  Sibley  s  had  accomplished  that 
neither  intellect,  wealth  nor  education  can  know 
ingly  do — they  had  produced  in  their  offspring 
the  physical  combination  called  beauty,  and  the 
mental  poise  recognized  as  power. 

Accounted  for  or  not,  there  was  Sis  with  a 
face  and  form  to  transfix  the  gaze  of  an  artist; 
quick-witted,  tender-hearted  and  bewitching.  Pov- 

155 


Tillicum  Tales 

erty  and  a  cramped  life  had  left  but  superficial 
traces  on  a  countenance  of  fascinating  individ 
uality.  Her  delicate  features,  topped  by  a  mass 
of  brown  waviness,  would  have  graced  a  more 
esthetic  region  than  Three-Mile  Flat.  One  wavy 
lock  refused  to  lie  with  its  mates  and  stubbornly 
dipped  over  her  brow  in  a  most  coquettish  man 
ner.  Mrs.  Sibley  was  wont  to  account  for  it 
this  way:  "That's  thuh  Jamison  cow-lick.  It's 
bin  croppin'  out  now  an'  then  ever  sence  thuh 
name  of  Jamison  crossed  thuh  fam'ly  way  back 
in  Georgia." 

Happenings  that  have  to  do  with  this  story 
were  at  a  standstill  until  mid-summer. 

Mr.  Sibley  often  repaired  to  the  ferry  for  a 
little  diversion  and  gossip,  as  the  ferryman  was 
his  nearest  neighbor  and  situated  right  in  what 
might  be  considered  the  thick  of  public  events 
in  that  region. 

One  evening  as  he  returned  from  one  of  these 
visits,  he  set  himself,  as  usual,  a  chair  out  under 
the  hop-vine  which  Mrs.  Sibley  had  coaxed  into 
arbor-like  appearance  in  front  of  their  shack  and 
lit  his  pipe.  Mrs.  Sibley  desisted  from  watering 
the  hollyhocks  she  had  fenced  away  from  the 
rapacious  chickens,  and  came  and  sat  herself 
down  by  Sis  in  the  front  doorway.  The  tangle 
of  boys  and  hounds  having  been  sent  to  a  bear 
able  distance,  Mr.  Sibley  began  to  regale  the 
womenfolk  with  his  news  items. 

"Seems  that  thuh  Grand  Mogul  has  met  up 
with  a  comedown."  Grand  Mogul  was  a  title  Mr. 
Sibley  had  felt  moved  to  confer  on  John  Oswald. 

156 


The  Tumi n<r  of  tlir  ttaronx 

"How's  that,  Paw,"  from  both  listeners. 

"He's  got  his  laig  broke  him  tin'  ovah  them 
bluffs.  Doctor's  bin  up  tub  set  it  an'  wuz  jest 
ferryin'  back  when  I  wuz  down  thah." 

"Broke  his  laig!  An'  nobody  thah  tub  do 
nothin'  fob  him  but  that  onery  half-breed,"  said 
Mrs.  Sibley,  showing  that  the  feud-like  hatred 
for  John  had  undergone  some  modifications  since 
the  episode  of  the  cow,  which  John  had  stoutly 
refused  to  be  paid  for. 

"I'm  feared  that  half-breed  'ull  not  treat  him 
right,"  from  Sis,  revealed  an  unsuspected  degree 
of  interest  on  her  part. 

"Don't  yuh  worry  none  'bout  that,  Sis.  That 
half-breed's  as  skeart  of  John  Oswald  with  all  his 
laigs  broke  as  you  air  of  thuh  ol'  Nick." 

As  he  spoke  Mr.  Sibley  glanced  reminiscently 
at  the  scenery  as  if  he  had  some  comprehensive 
recollections  along  that  line  himself.  Then  re 
sumed  : 

"Hit's  been  uncommon  hot  to-day  an'  thuh 
man  tub  thuh  ferry  says  we  kin  look  out  foh 
thuh  biggest  rise  in  ten  years,  when  thuh  sun 
strikes  that  jag  of  snow  onto  thuh  mountains. 
I  reckon  we  bettuh  git  tub  town  tuh-morrer, 
hadn't  we,  maw7,  'fore  thuh  ferry  quits?" 

The  river  did  rise  in  the  night,  and  another 
hot  day  threatened,  but  the  ferry  was  not  dis 
commoded,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Sibley,  being  inex 
perienced  in  the  floods  that  come  from  hot  sun 
shine,  drove  off  early  to  town. 

As  Sis  fetched  the  family  water  from  the 
river  during  the  day,  she  was  alarmed  at  its 

157 


TilUcum  Tales 

rapid  rise.  By  night  the  waters,  liberated  from 
the  mountains  some  fifty  miles  away,  came  sweep 
ing  down  in  ever-increasing  volumes.  Anxiously 
the  children  sought  the  ferry,  to  find  it  moored 
helplessly  on  the  other  side. 

This  meant  a  night  alone,  which  in  itself  had 
no  terrors  for  this  daughter  of  a  hardy  life.  Once 
her  brothers  slept  she  wandered  down  to  watch 
the  swirling  masses  of  debris  and  uprooted  trees 
in  the  raging  river.  Surprised,  she  heard  a  gal 
loping  horse  approaching.  Instinctively  she  hid, 
then  clearly  recognized  John  Oswald's  half-breed 
as  he  galloped  past,  bareheaded,  his  face  atwist 
with  malicious  passion.  A  revolver  glistened  in 
his  belt  and  he  rode  one  of  John's  own  horses. 

As  he  swiftly  disappeared,  every  faculty  Sis 
had  was  strained  to  account  for  the  incident. 
Her  indignation  swelled  at  the  story  her  intui 
tion  supplied.  Oswald  down  and  helpless;  some 
unreasonable  anger  of  his,  a  cankering  grudge 
in  the  heart  of  the  half-breed;  this  his  oppor 
tunity  for  revenge.  Her  only  thought,  at  first, 
that  he  would  steal  and  leave  John  helpless 
until  some  one  chanced  to  come  to  his  rescue. 
Then,  with  a  shudder,  came  a  more  poignant 
thought.  The  flood!  The  exposed  situation  of 
John's  house.  Even  now  it  must  be  threatened 
—perhaps  destroyed.  She  shrank,  coweringly, 
from  the  quick  following  suggestions;  she  alone 
knew  and  could  help,  but  how? 

"Not  a  horse  on  thuh  place.  Five  miles  an' 
dark  as  Egup  'round  that  cultus  trail.  Dear 
God,  I  kaint!"  was  her  first  exclamation.  Then 

158 


The  Taming  of  the  Baroiis 

one  thought  of  lying  helpless  before  the  stealthy 
waters  approach,  blotted  all  disagreeable  recol 
lections  and  hesitation  from  the  girl's  mind,  and 
"I  must,  I  just  shorely  must!"  came  from  her 
tense  lips. 

Awakening  her  eight-year-old  brother,  she 
gave  him  many  injunctions  to  follow,  "till  sister 
comes  back,"  and  then  slipped  swiftly  away  in 
the  darkness. 


159 


Tillicum  Tales 


CHAPTER  IV. 

The  distance  was  no  real  tax  on  this  girl's 
strength,  neither  had  she  any  of  the  sentimental 
fear  of  darkness  to  be  expected  of  an  ordinary 
miss;  but  there  were  real  dangers  and  well  she 
knew  them.  The  dismal  howl  of  a  coyote  was  to 
her  a  reassuring  sound,  indicating  the  absence  of 
possible  larger  and  fiercer  animals.  But  more 
than  once,  as  she  sped  along,  did  she  hear  the 
tell-tale  jingle  of  a  disturbed  rattler,  an  all  too 
frequent  pest  in  the  vicinity  at  that  time.  Night 
and  summer  time  were  the  normal  seasons  of 
their  prevalence,  and  the  flood  had  driven  them 
from  their  rocky  crevices  in  surprising  numbers. 

Even  her  stout  little  heart  gave  a  few  catch 
ing  throbs  as  she  neared  the  tunneled  passage 
ways  through  which  she  must  trust  her  sense  of 
direction  to  guide  her,  for  on  no  account  must 
she  touch  their  ledgy  sides,  so  likely  a  retreat 
for  the  reptiles;  but  she  scarcely  had  entered 
their  blackness  before  the  cool  night  air  from  the 
other  side  greeted  her  and  she  was  through  and 
on.  'Once  she  paused,  hopelessly  trying  to  dis 
tinguish  the  outlines  of  field  and  flood  in  the  val 
ley  below,  then  descending  to  its  level,  she  neared 
her  destination.  Here  a  new  obstacle  confronted 
her.  The  irrigation  ditch,  swollen  by  back-water, 
spread  half  a  hundred  feet  wide.  But  Sis  had 

160 


The  TatniH f/  of  the  Barons 

not  crossed  the  continent  in  a  mover's  wagon 
without  acquiring  resources.  Quickly  stripping 
her  clothing  off  she  wrapped  each  garment 
around  a  stone,  tossed  them  across,  and,  like  the 
little  athlete  she  was,  swam  easily  after  them, 
redressed  and  was  again  hurrying  up  the  road 
way  toward  the  house.  Once  the  river  encroach 
ed  upon  her  path  and  she  made  a  wide  detour 
to  avoid  it.  The  howling  of  John's  dogs  gave 
her  an  uneasy  pang,  prepared  to  face  them  if 
necessary  though  she  was,  but  luckily  they  had 
been  tied  by  the  cunning  half-breed  for  purposes 
of  his  own.  She  could  now  distinguish  the  out 
lines  of  the  house,  but  there  was  neither  light 
nor  sound  to  reassure  her.  Then  a  new  fear,  a 
real  gripping  one,  assailed  her.  It  made  her 
breath  come  in  gasps.  Why  had  she  not  thought 
before!  Oswald  was  dead  within!  The  half- 
breed  had  murdered  him!  She  could  scarcely 
restrain  the  impulse  to  run  and  crouch  by  the 
dogs — by  anything  that  was  alive! 

It  uiis  pluck  in  a  slip  of  a  girl,  but  she 
st»';idied  herself  and  walked  straight  through  the 
gate  and  onto  the  porch;  she  rapped  as  briskly 
as  a  mid-day  caller  might  have  done,  the  while 
listening  in  an  agony  of  tension. 

What  a  heavenly  sound,  then,  was  the  decid 
edly  gruff  "Who's  there!"  that  followed.  It  was 
a  pity  that  the  cunning  little  gesture  and  soft 
laugh  of  relief  Sis  gave  were  lost  on  the  unappre- 
ciativo  night.  She  stepped  into  the  darkness 
inside  and  answered  rather  faintly: 

"Its  me,  Sis  Sibley." 

161 


Tillicum  Tales 

A  pause;  then, 

"Well,  ah,  Miss  Sibley,  affairs  in  my  house 
hold  seein  to  be  in  such  an  unusual  state  that  I 
am  obliged  to  waive  all  ceremony  in  receiving 
you.  I  might  add  that  I  was  not  expecting  call 
ers,  though  I  assure  you  I  am  glad  to  see  you,  or 
will  be  when  I  do.  Would  you  mind  stepping 
to  this  table  and  lighting  a  lamp  which  you  will 
find  there?  You  see  I  am  disabled  myself  and 
that  d — d  man  of  mine  has  either  been  hurt  him 
self  or  has  decamped,  and  the  devil  seems  to  pay 
outside,  though  what  is  wrong  I  can't  guess." 

What  with  physical  suffering,  suspense  and 
vexation,  the  day  had  been  a  wearisome  one  for 
John,  though  he  was  far  from  realizing  what 
really  did  portend.  Of  a  part  with  all  the 
strangeness  seemed  the  coming  of  this  woman. 

At  first  sight  of  her  his  serious  mood  under 
went  a  comfortable  reaction.  He  was  genuine 
ly  amused.  People  who  are  familiar  with  the 
Arkansas  backwoods  customs  will  not  be  sur 
prised  that  Sis  wore  the  inevitable  sunbonnet. 

"Miss  Sibley,"  said  he,  with  a  hovering 
smile,  "won't  you  remove  your  wraps?" 

If  Sis  noticed  either  his  invitation  or  his  ridi 
cule,  she  gave  no  sign.  Affairs  of  more  conse 
quence  were  uppermost  in  her  mind. 

"Mistah  Oswald,"  her  tone  was  solemn,  "your 
man  has  gone  an'  left  yuh,  an'  thuh  river  is 
floodin'  an'  is  clean  up  tuh  thuh  door.  I  must 
loose  them  poor  critters  at  thuh  barn  first,  an' 
then  you  must  tell  me  what  I  kin  do  foh  you-all." 

162 


The  Tain  i  n  (/  of  the  Karon* 

John  gave  a  piercingly  astonished  look  at  the 
— sunbonnet,  and  ejaculated  something  too  ex 
pressive  to  be  recorded  here.  As  Sis  stood,  im 
movable,  awaiting  orders,  he  said: 

"If  you  think  you  can,  you  may  untie  my 
horse,  but  I  forbid  you  to  molest  the  dogs.  They 
would  probably  tear  you  to  pieces." 

By  the  aid  of  a  lantern  Sis  found  her  way  to 
untie  the  frantic  horse,  which  left  his  stall  with 
a  bound  to  seek  the  higher  ground  where  the 
other  stock  had  already  gone;  then  she  went  de 
liberately  and  untied  the  dogs,  who  seemed  to 
fawn  thanks  of  deliverance,  and  then  ran  with 
glad  barks  to  the  porch  where  they  vigorously 
shook  their  wet  coats. 

In  such  truly  tyrannical  manner  had  John 
grown  to  expect  obedience,  that  he  was  smartly 
vexed,  and  when  Sis  presented  herself  for  fur 
ther  orders,  he  said  sternly: 

"Woman,  there  is  nothing  you  can  do,  nor 
nothing  needing  to  be  done.  In  my  opinion'' 
(very  pompously)  "you  have  over-estimated  the 
danger.  There  is  no  reason  to  suppose  that  this 
house  can  really  be  threatened.  I  appreciate 
your  efforts  in  my  behalf7  (very  stiffly)  "but  it 
would  be  wise  for  you  to  compose  yourself  until 
such  time  as  you  feel  that  you  must  return,"  (not 
quite  an  invitation  to  go). 

Having  delivered  himself  of  this  very  warmly 
appreciative  dissertation,  John  virtuously  await- 
od  the  next  move  of  the  Siblcy. 

The  girl  held  her  head  high  as  she  thought 
for  a  moment,  then  said  calmly: 

163 


TiUicum  Tales 

"Mistah  Oswald,  your  boat  is  swept  away.  I 
thought  you  would  tell  me  what  tuh  do  tuh  save 
us  if  thuh  house  goes  too,  but  I  kalkilate  I  must 
see  things  through  by  myself."  With  this  she 
took  the  light  and  started  out. 

From  John  harshly :  "What  do  you  propose 
to  do?" 

"Try  an'  build  a  raft." 

"You'll  do  nothing  of  the  d — d  sort!"  (eyes 
steely  and  voice  hissy.)  "In  the  first  place,  it 
is  not  needed,  and  in  the  next  place,  there  is  not 
a  suitable  thing  on  the  place  to  use  for  such  a 
purpose.  You  build  a  raft!" 

Sis  had  a  temper  that  was  scarcely  proof 
against  such  unjust  treatment,  but  she  went 
coolly  out  into  the  adjoining  room  and  com 
menced  a  search  after  various  articles. 

John  boiled  silently  for  a  few  moments,  then 
remarked  scathingly: 

"I  suppose  impudence  and  bad  manners  from 
some  sources  no  need  to  surprise  one." 

"Were  you  speaking  of  mannahs^  Mr.  Os 
wald?"  said  Sis  from  the  doorway  in  a  tone  that 
carried  volumes  of  meaning.  And  the  barons 
began  to  realize  the  uselessness  of  blustering  to 
ward  some  people. 

When  Sis  had  gathered  together  hammer, 
nails,  a  clothesline  and  two  planks,  she  took,  one 
by  one,  three  house  doors  from  off  their  hinges, 
laid  them  on  the  porch  convenient  to  John's  win 
dow,  and  nailed  them  together  securely.  Fasten 
ing  one  end  of  the  line  to  the  doorknobs  and  one 

164 


The  Taming  of  tJie  Barons 

to  a  substantial  nearby  tree  completed  her  op 
erations.  She  then  repaired  to  the  kitchen,  drew 
her  wet  feet  up  under  her  and  sat  shivering  and 
waiting,  not  caring  whether  John  was  gnashing 
his  teeth  or  amusing  himself  some  other  way. 


105 


Tillicum  Tales 


CHAPTER  V. 

Soon  a  long  glistening  streak  crept  in  under 
the  door.  With  fascinated  interest  the  girl 
watched  it  extend  itself,  then  spread  gradually 
into  pools.  As  she  saw  the  floor  about  to  vanish 
beneath  the  muddy  waters  it  seemed  the  limit  of 
what  she  could  endure  of  lonely  waiting,  so  she 
took  the  lamp  and  beat  a  hasty  retreat  to  the 
room  where  John  lay.  The  silent  intruder  was 
making  headway  there  also,  as  the  advent  of  the 
light  revealed  to  John's  sudden  consternation. 
For  a  time  he  said  nothing,  nor  the  girl ;  though 
the  rapid  changes  his  countenance  underwent  be 
spoke  a  realization,  at  last,  of  the  danger  and  of 
his  helplessness.  Then  he  asked,  with  a  new 
shade  of  respect  in  his  tones: 

"How  happened  you  to  be  here  tonight?" 

"I  seen  your  man  run  off  an'  I  was  'feared 
thuh  flood  would  drowned  yuh,"  replied  Sis  with 
her  customary  directness. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  you  rode  from  your 
place  here,  alone,  because  of  that?" 

"I  walked." 

"Walked!  Dead  Caesar's  ghost!  That  was 
no  joke." 

Again  silence,  then  John: 

"Miss  Sibley,  (blessed  if  I  know  just  how  I 
ought  to  address  you!)  I  feel  that  an  apology 

166 


The  Taming  of  the  Baron* 

is  due  you  for  what  might  have  appeared  lik<> 
rudeness  on  my  part.  No  doubt  by  now  you 
think  drowning  is  too  good  for  me." 

A  light  laugh,  quickly  caught  and  suppressed, 
was  the  girl's  answer,  then  she  ventured: 

"My  name  is  Drucilla,  if  you  care  tuh  know." 

"Drucilla,  Drucilla  Sibley,"  slowly  repeated 
John  as  if  struck  with  something  euphonious  in 
the  name. 

Confronting  a  situation  such  as  faced  these 
two  is  conducive  to  rapid  acquaintance.  In  the 
phenomenally  long  few  hours  that  followed, 
John  found  himself  confiding  to  a  Sibley  such 
personal  matters  as  that  there  was  no  one  to  care 
what  accident  might  befall  him,  nor  indeed  if  the 
Columbia  should  sweep  him  into  the  Pacific  that 
very  night;  while  in  turn  he  got  an  insight  into 
the  strange  childhood  and  girlhood  of  Sis;  the 
years  of  poverty  and  drifting,  with  no  school  ad 
vantages  other  than  that  of  a  few  months  each 
out  of  two  winters  spent  in  Fayetteville. 

Now  and  then  John  ventured  a  reassuring  re 
mark  in  the  direction  of  her  voice  (and  bonnet), 
to  the  effect  that  the  Hood  must  surely  have 
reached  its  worst  stage.  Sis,  as  conscientiously 
tried  to  feel  reassured.  Hut  no  amount  of  jug 
gling  with  conversation  blinded  them  to  the  fact 
that  the  danger  kept  increasing. 

John  even  asked  anxiously  if  she  had  suc 
ceeded  in  constructing  anything  that  she  thought 
would  float.  She  explained  her  crude  prepara 
tions,  and  they  lapsed  into  a  silent  vigil  of  such 
suspense  that  it  was  almost  unendurable. 

107 


Tillicum  Tales 

Then  the  spell  was  broken!  The  house  gave 
a  sickening  floating  motion.  With  one  bound 
of  terror  the  over- wrought  and  exhausted  girl 
sprang  toward  John  and  frantically  clutched  his 
arm  as  she  cried  in  a  passion  of  nervous  fright : 

"Oh!  Mistah  Oswald,  I'm  so  'feared,  an'  so 
cold  an'  so  tired,  just  let  me  touch  you,  won't 
you  please?" 

Sis  had  always  had  Mrs.  Sibley's  ample  and 
reassuring  bosom  to  flee  to  in  times  of  stress,  and 
for  the  moment  was  a  very  child  in  fear  and 
helplessness. 

With  shame  we  must  record  that  John's  first 
impulse  was  to  repulse  such  unwarranted  famil 
iarity,  especially  upon  the  part  of  a  Sibley,  but, 
at  this  critical  moment  the  hitherto  faithful  sun- 
bonnet  had  tumbled  back  unheeded,  and  John 
found  himself  gazing  at  close  range  into  as  love 
ly,  if  pale  and  tearful,  a  face  as  he  had  ever 
seen. 

Here  was  a  situation  for  the  totally  unprepar 
ed  John  in  which  his  calloused  emotions  had  to 
give  way  to  some  lively  adjusting.  Surprise  at  the 
butterfly  which  had  emerged  from  the  sunbonnet 
chrysalis  was  uppermost.  The  novelty  of  having 
a  human  being  dare  approach  him  came  next,  and 
was  no  less  interesting  by  reason  of  its  being  a 
pretty  woman  in  distress.  Unwonted  thrills 
that  might  have  been  awakening  chivalry,  or  long 
dormant  impulses  of  tenderness,  ruffled  his  se 
renity.  The  memory  of  his  last  caresses,  a 
mother's,  came  vaguely  to  him.  Some  intense 
grief  over  the  pity  of  his  long  repressed  affec- 

168 


The  Taming  of  the  Barons 

tions  seemed  to  catch  momentarily  at  his  con 
sciousness.  Floods  were  forgotten  in  this  mo 
ment  of  introspection. 

A  repressed  sob  from  the  girl  renewed  the 
present,  and  he  laid  his  hand  gently  on  her 
head,  saying: 

"Little  girl,  don't  be  afraid;  we  will  see  this 
thing  safely  through  yet,"  a  very  creditable  at 
tempt  at  comforting  for  the  baronly  unaccus- 
tomedness.  With  her  face  in  a  convenient  pil 
low  Sis  sobbed  convulsively. 

\\V  suspect  now  that  Cupid  has  command  of 
the  elements  to  further  his  plans,  for  having  used 
the  flood  to  bring  affairs  up  to  this  climax,  he 
allowed  it  to  subside. 

John's  happy  ejaculation,  "Jove!  I  believe  I 
can  see  more  of  that  chair  than  I  could  a  few 
moments  ago!"  aroused  the  girl. 

She  raised  her  woe-begone  face,  saw  that  he 
was  right,  and  gave  way  to  real  girlish  impulses 
of  delight.  She  patted  John's  hand,  clasped 
her  own  excitedly  and  pressed  her  face  to  the 
windowpane,  eagerly  seeking  the  coming  of  day 
light.  And  come  it  did  very  soon,  revealing  a 
most  prosaic  state  of  mud-disfigured  surround 
ings. 

With  assured  safety  came  much  of  their 
former  reserve,  and  Sis  would  have  been  glad 
to  don  her  sunbonnet  if  John  had  not  purposely, 
or  otherwise,  laid  it  behind  him.  At  one  time  he 
would  have  considered  the  tongs  the  only  proper 
thing  with  which  to  handle  a  Sibley  garment. 


Tillioum  Tales 

Continued  glances  at  the  head  the  bonnet  had 
sheltered  were  rapidly  dispelling  that  point  of 
view. 

Sis  prepared  some  acceptable  toast  and  cof 
fee,  and  a  short  time  thereafter  no  less  a  person 
appeared  on  the  scene  than  Mr.  Sibley;  the  very 
widening  of  the  river  below  the  narrows  having 
made  rowing  across  it  easier  than  usual. 

So,  leaving  the  invalid  to  the  doubtful  ten 
derness  of  "Paw  Sibley,"  Sis  hastened  home  to 
the  comforting  arms  of  "one  who  would  appreci 
ate  that  she  had  gone  five  miles  alone  in  the  dark 
through  dangers,  and  would  give  her  a  word  of 
praise,"  as  Sis  said  to  herself  with  an  aggrieved 
sigh,  though  for  some  reason  a  blush  hid  very 
near  the  sigh. 

After  his  recovery,  John  made  several  at 
tempts  to  see  Sis  and  formally  thank  her.  He 
was  puzzled  to  know  why  he  never  found  her  on 
any  of  these  occasions.  He  was  no  more  puzzled 
than  poor  Sis  would  have  been  if  called  upon  to 
explain  what  impluse  sent  her  scurrying  to  the 
fields  every  time  John's  saddler  was  seen  ap 
proaching.  "Paw"  and  "Maw"  had  their  per 
plexities  too,  these  days,  because  of  the  new 
sensitiveness  Sis  exhibited  to  all  the  Sibley  de 
ficiencies,  and  her  unwonted  longings  "for  things 
like  other  girls."  Her  merry-hearted  mischief 
seemed  suddenly  to  have  given  place  to  a  patient 
and  painstaking  devotion  to  the  home  folks  and 
duty.  In  short  Cupid  had  touched  a  young 
girl's  imagination  and  another  hero  was  born. 

170 


The  Tainin<f  of  the  7ff/ro//\ 

Even  John  Oswald  showed  "symptoms''  un 
derstood  by  the  wily  fellow,  who  no  doubt  went 
on  to  other  scenes,  knowing  full  well  that  his 
arrow-sped  virus  would  "take"  in  due  time. 

For  some  reason  John's  previous  plans  and 
purposes  seemed  as  out  of  date  as  if  blocked  out 
for  a  stranger,  and  to  which  to  try  and  reconcile 
himself,  was  to  be  interrupted  by  irrelevant  recol 
lections  of  a  girl's  tear-stained  face  and  soft 
touch ;  while  letters  from  the  New  York  aunt, 
urging  the  date  of  his  arrival,  made  John  so  cross 
that  his  new  helpers,  a  man  and  his  wife,  could 
hardly  endure  him. 

One  can  follow  a  worse  guide  than  the  genu 
ine  little  Cupid,  no  matter  how  impractical  lie, 
may  seem.  Perhaps  he  sees  things  not  apparent 
on  the  surface;  for  instance  that  John  needed  ,i 
little  leveling  down  to  the  average  humanity  be 
fore  he  should  be  quite  the  man  he  might  bo ;  or, 
he  knew  that  Sis,  barring  little  trips  in  grammar, 
and  things  superficial  and  to  be  overcome,  wa* 
John's  equal.  Perhaps  he  foresaw  how  the  meek 
adoration  of  Paw  Sibley  and  the  homely  affec 
tionate  atmosphere  surrounding  Maw  Sibley 
would  supply  in  John's  future  something  sadly 
hi  (king  in  his  past.  John  may  have  been  dimly 
conscious  of  such  subjective  suggestions  himself, 
but  it  needed  one  more  circumstance  to  jog  the 
baronly  vanity  "out  of  the  common  time  into 
the  salute." 

As  John  was  returning  from  Wenatchee  one 
day,  lie  was  overtaken  by  another  horseman 
whom  he  recognized  as  the  dashing  and  sportv 

171 


Tillicum  Tales 

proprietor  of  the  new  hotel  at  that  place.  In 
an  overly  familiar  manner,  he  confided  to  John 
his  errand.  It  was  to  find  old  man  Sibley,  "who 
has  a  girl,  an  uncommon  peachy  looker,  and  I'm 
going  to  persuade  that  girl  to  come  to  work  at 
my  hotel.  Girls  is  scarce  and  high  and  I  hap 
pen  to  know  the  old  man  is  down  on  his  finances ; 
anyway  Fm  going  to  make  it  worth  that  girl'? 
while,"  and  here  he  tipped  John  a  sly  wink. 

John  turned  livid  and  raised  his  riding  whip, 
but  reason  prevailed,  and  he  only  brought  it 
down  on  his  own  horse,  which  was  off  like  the 
wind. 

"That's  blamed  queer;  wonder  if  he's  got  de 
signs  on  that  girl  himself,"  was  the  man's  sur 
prised  comment. 

John  rode  that  gait  the  several  miles  home, 
then  turned  and  rode  as  rapidly  back  again. 
In  the  meantime  he  was  coming  round  to  one 
of  his  lightning-like  conclusions.  He  recalled 
and  bade  a  last  farewell  to  "Mrs.  John  Oswald, 
late  of  New  York."  He  even  considered  a  few 
remembered  arguments  against  marriages  be 
tween  people  of  different  social  environments 
and  attainments.  Some  way  the  color  of  eyes, 
the  balancing  of  wills,  and  even  the  tones  of  a 
voice  seemed  confusingly  prominent  in  the  at 
tempt  to  weigh  the  matter  coolly. 

As  he  passed  over  the  narrow  trail,  the 
thought  of  a  girl  crossing  it  alone  and  in  the 
night  to  come  to  his  aid  seemed  to  clinch  matters, 
and  one  near  might  have  heard  him  say,  forcibly : 

172 


The  T  a  mine/  of  the  Barons 

"Dang  it,  a  fellow  wants  what  he  wants,  don't 
he,  and  that  settles  it."  Then  he  remembered 
the  jaunty  stranger  and  rode  the  harder. 

Around  the  Sibley  home  an  air  of  excitement 
was  still  apparent.  Paw  Sibley,  looking  almost 
as  fierce  as  some  of  his  Kentucky  cousins,  still 
held  his  shotgun,  while  he  and  Maw  Sibley  ex 
changed  scathingly  indignant  remarks  to  nobody 
but  the  awe-struck  boys.  Sis  had  fled  upon  see 
ing  John. 

The  Sibley  vocabulary  was  taxed  while  Paw 
and  Maw  tried  to  tell  how  the  name  of  Sibley 
and  Jamison  had  been  insulted  right  at  their 
door. 

"There  ain't  never  been  a  Sibley  nor  a  Jamison 
'hire  out'  to  nobody"  ("nor  never  shall,"  broke 
in  Mr.  Sibley.)  "They  owned  their  own  niggers 
too,  an'  here  comes  this  pisen  Yankee  talkin'  tuli 
our  Sis  'bout  hirin',"  and  Mrs.  Sibley  wiped  her 
eyes  as  she  continued,  "Thuh  hardest  part  fur 
Paw  an'  me  wuz  havin'  Sis  speak  up  an'  say  she 
thought  'twas  time  we  quit  talkin'  'bout  the  Jam 
ison  an'  Sibley  niggers  an'  let  her  go  tuh  work. 
She  says  she  kaint  bear  tuh  see  Paw  work  no 
harder  an'  he  kaint  make  no  livin'  here." 

Leaving  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Sibley  groaning  over 
this  unexpected  degeneracy  in  the  "apple  of  their 
eye,"  John  suddenly  stepped  inside. 

There  sat  Sis  looking  miserable  indeed.  For 
the  first  time  her  parents  had  disapproved  of 
"wo-all,  that  is,  Sis."  Deep  humiliation  at  all 
these  reminders  of  their  poverty  lowered  her 
head.  She  was  altogether  crestfallen  and  con 
querable.  John  was  correspondingly  positive, 

173 


TilUcum  Tales 

so  it  came  about  with  shocking  suddenness  that 
John  was  holding  the  trembling  girl,  new  pink 
calico  and  all,  in  his  arms,  and  pouring  out  plans 
by  which  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Sibley  should  live  com 
fortably  on  the  strip,  and  she — quite  as  comforta 
ble — with  him! 

When  Paw  and  Maw  stepped  inside  and  be 
held  their  Sis  in  the  arms  of  "the  grand  mo 
gul,"  not  having  had  any  "soul  interchange"  to 
prepare  them,  they  stood  in  rank  amazement,  all 
of  which  John  was  oblivious  to  until  the  young 
est  Sibley  shouted :  "Paw  air  yuh  goin'  tub  draw 
yer  gun  on  that  one  too?" 

Some  days  later  John  started  the  following 
letter  eastward : 
"My  Dear  Aunt : 

"You  may  expect  me  in  New  York  the  first  of 
the  month.  I  am  coming  after  an  educated  and 
refined  woman,  yes!  as  a  companion,  certainly! 
but  for  my  wife! — as  lovely  and  sweet  a  girl  as 
was  ever  made.  Some  day  soon  I  shall  present 
her  to  you,  as  we  shall  spend  the  season  in  your 
city. 

"Dear  aunt,  I  have  found  that  it  is  not  essen 
tial  in  an  agreeable  companion  that  she  shall  be 
a  counterpart  of  one's  self  in  book  learning;  in 
stead  I  find  it  very  agreeable  to  be  the  first  to 
unfold  these  things  to  a  fresh  and  appreciative 
mind. 

"I  make  a  fair  task  master  considering  that  I 
am  utterly  unable  to  intimidate  my  pupil  by  any 
means  what-some-never. 

"Your  enthusiastic  nephew, 

"JOHN  OSWALD." 
174 


Under  the  Tricolor 

BY 
FRANCES  K.  BYERS 


Under  the  Tricolor 


jjjf    WONDER  what  can  be  the  matter  with 
1 8  my    wheel.      I    almost    believe    it    is    be- 
•™  witched,  and  the  thread,  too,  for  not  one 
smooth  skein  have  I  spun  today." 

There  was  an  angry  snarl,  the  thread  snapped, 
and  Fran  Lenz  pushed  the  wheel  impatiently 
from  her  and  walked  to  the  window. 

"Ach!"  she  murmured,  "it  is  not  the  fault  of 
my  faithful  wheel,  but  of  my  own  heart — dark 
and  tumultuous  it  is,  like  the  Rhine  itself,  today. 
And  how  can  I  spin  when  my  eyes  are  blurred 
with  tears?  Never  did  I,  nor  my  mothers  before 
me,  shrink  from  giving  our  best,  yes,  our  all,  in 
defense  of  our  Fatherland  and  our  rightful  king! 
But  when  I  think  of  my  husband  in  the  ranks  of 
the  usurper,  forced  to  fight  against  Russia  who 
is  our  friend — perhaps  lying  wounded  and  frozen 
upon  a  battlefield — and  my  son,  my  happy  little 
Fritz"- 

Down  the  street  came  the  clatter  of  wooden 
shoes.  The  children  were  coming  from  school. 

"Mein  Uebling,"  she  said  tenderly,  caressing 
Hanschen,  the  youngest,  who  hurried  to  her  and 
buried  his  face  in  the  folds  of  her  skirts,  "starved 
as  usual,  is  it  not  so?  But  where/'  she  asked, 

177 


Tillicum  Tales 

pausing  before  the  crane,  kettle  in  hand,  "where 
is  thy  brother  Karl?  It  grows  late,  and  he 
should  have  been  at  home  this  half  hour." 

She  cast  a  quick  apprehensive  glance  at  the 
door,  which  burst  open  a  moment  later,  and  Karl 
stood  before  her. 

"Mother,"  he  said,  when  he  had  recovered  his 
breath,  "I  saw  a  great  mass  of  people  around  the 
fountain,  so  I  went  too.  A  rider,  whose  -horse's 
muzzle  was  white  with  foam,  was  reading  a  pa 
per.  I  could  not  understand  what  he  said,  but 
the  crowd  cheered  until  the  gendarme  galloped 
up  and  scattered  them,  commanding  them  in  the 
name  of  the  King  to  go  home." 

"It  is  Frederick  William's  proclamation," 
said  Frau  Goetz,  their  neighbor,  who,  in  the  ex 
citement,  had  entered  without  the  formality  of 
knocking.  "Here  I  have  a  copy  of  it  in  my 
pocket.  Take  it — or  let  me  read  it  aloud,  so  that 
all  may  hear." 

Tears  often  choked  her  utterance  and  her  au 
dience  hung  on  each  word  of  the  long-hoped-for 
proclamation  of  their  beloved  king,  which  de 
clared  that  the  decisive  moment  had  at  last  ar 
rived,  and  exhorted  all  his  loyal  subjects — 
Brandenburgians,  Prussians,  Silicians,  all  who 
call  themselves  German — to  remember  the  his 
tory  of  their  past,  to  remember  the  noble 
Elector,  to  remember  the  great  and  victorious 
Frederick  and  the  achievements  of  their  common 
ancestors,  and  above  all  to  remember  the  past 
seven  years  of  war  and  desolation;  impressing 
upon  them  that  by  reason  of  these  memories  no 

178 


Under  the  Tricolor 

sacrifice  could  be  too  great  for  the  King  and 
Fatherland. 

"Now,  God  be  thanked !"  broke  in  the  old 
grandfather,  rising  from  his  seat  by  the  fireside 
and  letting  his  pipe  fall  to  the  floor.  His  eves 
flashed,  and  he  stood  before  them,  not  the  infirm 
cripple,  who,  as  he  often  bitterly  said,  was  only 
fit  to  do  the  tasks  of  an  old  woman,  but  again 
the  stout  hussar,  ready  to  follow  Father  Blucher 
into  hell  itself. 

"Ach!"  he  groaned,  sinking  into  a  chair,  "if 
it  were  not  for  that  accursed  bullet — but  go  on,  I 
must  hear  it  all." 

"We  must  fight  and  conquer,"  she  continued, 
"if  we  do  not  wish  to  cease  being  Prussians  and 
Germans.  It  is  our  last  decisive  effort  for  ex 
istence.  There  is  no  other  issue  than  an  honor 
able  peace,  or  a  glorious  overthrow.  God  and 
the  right  will  make  us  victorious !" 

"Amen!"  said  the  old  man  devoutly,  and  all 
in  the  room  echoed  the  word. 

"The  king  says  great  sacrifices  will  be  re 
quired,"  said  Frau  Lenz  sadly.  "Alas!  we  have 
nothing  to  give.  We  can  furnish  no  soldiers, 
and  all  has  been  taken  from  us;  even  our  last 
cow  was  taken  away  yesterday. 

"Here  is  something,"  said  Frau  Goetz,  point 
ing  to  the  shining  pewter  dishes  on  the  dresser. 

"But  of  what  use  would  they  be  to  the  King?" 
asked  Frau  Lenz,  wonderingly. 

"Bullets,"  answered  the  other  woman  stoutly. 
"And/'  she  continued,  "I  still  have  something  to 
show  thee — these!" 

179 


Tillicum  Tales 

Drawing  a  box  from  her  pocket  she  showed 
her  astonished  friends  a  dozen  or  more  iron  rings, 
shaped  like  wedding  rings  and  engraved  on  the 
inside  with  the  words,  "I  Gave  Gold  for  Iron — 
1813," 

"These  were  brought  me  from  Berlin,"  she 
went  on,  "by  the  same  courier  who  brought  us 
the  news.  My  friend  the  silversmith  sent  them. 
By  royal  authority  he  has  made  ten  thousand  of 
the  rings,  and  has  addressed  a  request  to  all 
patriots,  especially  all  married  women  and  be 
trothed  maidens,  to  bring  their  gold  rings  and  re 
ceive  the  iron  ones  in  exchange." 

Without  a  moment's  hesitation,  Frau  Lenz 
drew  her  wedding  ring  from  her  finger,  and, 
pausing  only  to  press  it  to  her  lips  and  to  read 
for  the  last  time  the  names  inside,  "Ludwig  and 
Frederika,  20th  June,  1790,"  laid  it  in  the  open 
hand  of  her  friend. 

"Heart's  treasure,  farewell,"  she  murmured 
softly.  "Long  years  of  service  have  proven  thee 
pure  gold,  like  the  heart  of  him  who  put  thee  on 
my  finger." 

"Ac7i/"  exclaimed  Amelia,  impulsively,  press 
ing  forward,  "if  only  I,  too,  could  have  a  ring! 
But  I  have  none  to  give  in  exchange." 

"See,"  said  Frau  Goetz,  throwing  back  her 
close-fitting  hood.  They  saw  that  the  shining 
braids  which  had  been  her  pride  were  gone. 

"Thank  you,  Frau  Goetz!"  cried  Amelia,  "I, 
also,  will  give  my  gold  to  the  King,  and  you  shall 
make  me  a  hood." 

180 


Under  the  Tricolor 

Swiftly  she  ran  to  a  work-basket  and  came 
back  with  a  heavy  pair  of  shears  which  she 
handed  to  Frau  Goetz.  In  a  twinkling  the  two 
glittering  yellow  braids  lay  in  that  good  wom 
an's  lap. 

At  that  moment  heavy  footsteps  were  heard 
without,  hurrying  toward  the  house,  and  the 
girl  caught  up  a  kerchief  to  cover  her  shorn 
locks.  Frau  Lenz  hastened  to  the  door,  but  be 
fore  she  could  fasten  the  bolt  it  flew  open  and 
two  tall  soldiers,  wearing  the  Emperor's  uni 
form,  stood  before  her. 

"Sirs,"  she  demanded  sternly,  "by  what  right 
do  you  so  brutally  invade  my  home?  My  God!" 
she  cried,  as  the  foremost  pushed  back  his  hat 
and  advanced  into  the  room,  "can  it  be? — yes, 
it  is  Fritz,  my  dear,  dear  son !" 

"No,  no,  mutterchen-/'  said  Fritz,  brushing 
away  his  own  tears,  "this  is  not  the  time 
for  crying.  Why,  this  is  the  happiest  day  of  my 
life,  for  have  I  not  escaped  from  the  service  of 
the  man  whom  I  hate  more  ardently  than  I  love 
my  own  life,  and  am  well  on  my  way  to  become 
one  of  Von  Lutzow's  riflemen?  So  another  kiss, 
dear  heart,  and  I  am  off.  But  God  forgive  me!" 
he  cried,  as  he  suddenly  recollected  his  friend. 
"Mother,  sister,  have  you  no  greeting  for  Franz 
Werther,  the  truest  friend  man  ever  had?  Thank 
God,  who  made  his  legs  so  long,  else  I  should  now 
be  at  the  bottom  of  the  river !  It  is  swollen  from 
the  heavy  rains,  and  swimming  against  the  swift 
current  had  exhausted  my  strength,  when  his  feet 
touched  bottom  and  he  dragged  me  to  the  shore." 

181 


Tilliciim  Tales 

"God  bless  you,  my  son!"  exclaimed  the 
mother,  impulsively  clasping  the  tall  Westpha- 
lian  to  her  heart  and  kissing  him  on  both  cheeks. 

"Wait,"  she  said,  detaining  them;  "I  could 
not  think  of  sending  soldiers  so  poorly  equipped. 
I  have  provided  something  against  this  day." 

She  cautiously  bolted  the  door.  Under  her 
direction  the  flagstone  in  front  of  the  hearth  was 
raised,  and  from  her  store,  hidden  there,  she 
chose  two  new  suits  of  homespun. 

"Now,  off  with  those  rags,"  she  commanded, 
"for  they  hurt  my  eyes,  and  while  you  are  about 
it  I  will  make  you  some  coffee.  Then  you  will 
be  able  to  travel  twice  as  fast." 

While  Fritz  was  taking  leave  of  his  mother 
and  grandfather,  his  friend  stood  looking  admir 
ingly  at  the  severed  hair  that  still  lay  on  the 
bench  where  Frau  Goetz  had  laid  it. 

"Fraulein"  said  he,  "God  grant  great  hearts 
to  us  men  that  we  may  be  worthy  of  our  heroic 
women!"  He  drew  a  tiny  tress  from  one  of  the 
braids.  "Fr<mlein"  he  entreated,  "will  you  not 
give  this  little  lock  to  me?" 

She  flushed  and  shook  her  head.  "No,"  she 
answered,  "we  German  maidens  do  not  give  our 
hair  to  strangers." 

"But,  Fraulein."  he  persisted,  "you  are  giv 
ing  all  of  yours  to  the  King,  whom  you  have 
never  seen,  while  I  have  had  the  happiness  of 
your  acquaintance  for  a  blessed  half-hour." 

She  stood  with  averted  head,  her  hand  held 
out  for  the  tress  of  hair,  which  he  still  with 
held. 

182 


Under  the  Tricolor 

"Dear  Fraulein,*''  he  said  pleadingly,  "it  is  the 
old  story  of  the  Rhine  maiden,  and  I  am  entan 
gled  in  the  meshes  of  her  hair,  which  will  hold 
me  forever  by  her  side,  if  she  does  not  let  go." 

She  caught  her  brother's  questioning  eye,  im 
patient  to  be  gone. 

"Yes,  take  it,"  she  faltered,  "take  it  and  go." 

*»»»*** 

Blucher  commanded  the  Prussian  army — 
Blucher,  who  had  sworn  every  day  since  Jena 
and  Tilsit  that  he  would  not  sheathe  his  sword 
until  he  had  driven  Napoleon  beyond  the  Rhine, 
and  when  he  took  command  declared  that  for 
them  there  could  be  no  retreat.  Joyfully  all  the 
able-bodied  men  who  called  themselves  German 
hastened  as  one  man  to  Berlin,  and,  while  the 
streets  were  ringing  with  the  martial  strains  of 
Fouque  and  Korner,  enlisted  under  their  be 
loved  old  general.  With  a  confidence  that  never 
wavered,  they  followed  their  impetuous  leader 
through  days  of  success  and  days  of  gloom  and 
disaster;  onward  like  the  rising  of  the  ocean's 
tide,  until  they  stood  with  him  upon  the  heights 
of  Montmartre  and  beheld  Paris  at  their  feet. 

The  lot  of  the  women,  left  at  home,  was  no 
less  arduous  than  that  of  the  men,  and  animated 
by  an  equal  enthusiasm  they  made  themselves 
the  base  of  supplies  for  the  soldiers,  whose  pa 
triotism,  however  great,  must  have  food  and 
clothing  to  keep  it  alive.  True,  friend  and  foe 
alike  had  depleted  their  possessions,  but  in  their 
rich  fields,  their  strong  arms  and  their  skillful 
fingers,  lay  always  the  possibilities  of  more. 

183 


Tillicum  Tales 

They  toiled,  these  women,  not  to  the  beat  of  drum 
and  call  of  bugle,  but  to  the  music  of  their  folk 
songs,  and  clung  to  their  homes  until  a  courier 
startled  them  with  the  news  of  Napoleon's  re 
treat  toward  the  Rhine. 

They  then  fled  from  their  home,  and  it  was 
only  when  the  enemy  had  been  driven  beyond 
the  Rhine  that,  with  glad  and  thankful  hearts, 
they  retraced  their  way. 

At  times  they  traveled  along  roads  broken  and 
strewn  with  debris;  at  other  times  through  fair 
country  lanes  bordered  by  whitening  hawthorn, 
wherein  nature  herself  seemed  to  rejoice  in  the 
new  dispensation.  At  last,  with  tear-dimmed 
eyes,  they  beheld  their  beloved  Rhine. 

"My  daughter,"  entreated  the  elder  woman, 
"your  eyes  are  younger  and  stronger  than  mine. 
Try  if  you  can  see  the  chimneys  or  at  least  the 
church-spire  of  our  dear  village." 

Amelia  looked  long  and  earnestly.  "Xo,"  she 
said  at  last,  "it  must  be  the  mist  from  the  river, 
for  I  can  see  nothing." 

"Ah,  well,"  said  the  mother,  stifling  a  sigh, 
"what  matter  a  few  minutes,  when  we  know  that 
to-night  we  shall  rest  again  in  our  own  home!" 

Slowly  a  blur  grew  through  the  mist,  took 
shape,  and  became  trees,  stone  walls  and  chim 
neys.  With  fast-beating  hearts  the  women  alight 
ed  from  the  traveling-vehicle  and  turned  up  the 
well-remembered  road  toward  home.  But  scarce 
ly  had  they  walked  twenty  yards  when  cries  of 
anguish  burst  from  their  lips.  There  was  neither 

184 


Under  the  Tricolor 

light  nor  warmth  in  the  village  houses — nothing 
but  blackened  walls  and  ruined  hearths. 

Napoleon  had  passed  before  them ! 

Frau  Lenz  was  exhausted  by  the  vigils  of  the 
past  months,  her  nerves  shattered  by  their  hor 
rors,  and  only  the  thought  of  home  and  a  re 
united  family  had  sustained  her  during  the  fa 
tigue  of  the  long  journey.  She  sank  lifeless  on 
the  doorstone  of  her  old  home,  at  the  feet  of  the 
husband  who  had  returned  one  moment  too  late 

to  save  her. 

******* 

Two  days  later,  and  the  beloved  clay  had  been 
consigned  to  its  last  rest  in  the  poor  trampled 
little  churchyard.  Lenz  and  his  father  walked 
slowly  through  the  village  streets. 

"I  have  brought  you  here,"  he  said  to  the  old 
man,  as  they  seated  themselves  on  the  broken 
wall  of  the  village  fountain,  "to  hold  a  council 
of  war.  Often  I  have  heard  my  old  General 
voice  his  contempt  for  the  man  who  is  crushed 
by  misfortune,  and  I  feel  that  even  in  sorrow, 
such  as  ours,  we  must  not  forget  that  we  are 
brave  men.  During  my  campaign  I  have  heard 
much  about  America,  and  many  of  our  friends 
are  going  there.  Our  work  here  is  done;  our 
old  home  is  no  more.  I  have  not  the  heart  to 
build  another  on  its  site,  but  if  we  can  establish 
one  across  the  sea  it  will  mean  the  beginning  of 
a  new  life — for  the  children  at  least" 

The  veteran  entered  with  enthusiasm  into  the 
project,  and  when  it  was  imparted  to  Amelia 
and  the  boys  they  joyfully  acquiesced.  But  no 

185 


Tillicum  Tales 

news  had  as  yet  come  from  Fritz;  and  Amelia, 
thinking  of  the  soldier  friend  as  well  as  of  her 
brother,  pleaded  for  delay. 

"But  if  he  comes  the  pastor  will  give  him  all 
necessary  information/'  answered  her  father, 
"and  you  may  be  sure  that  he  will  soon  follow 
us." 

Accordingly,  they  collected  their  few  belong 
ings.  The  two  men  procured  some  carpenter's 
tools,  and  from  the  blasted  trunk  of  an  aged 
cherry  tree  that  had  been  the  special  favorite 
of  the  dead  wife,  fashioned  a  sea-chest. 

"Wait,"  cried  Karl,  "I  think  of  something 
else — we  have  forgotten  the  things  under  the 
kitchen  floor." 

They  followed  his  eager  footsteps  and  soon 
had  the  ashes  and  fallen  timbers  cleared  from 
the  floor  and  the  carefully  concealed  treasures 
uncovered. 

For  the  first  time  the  bereaved  husband  gave 
way  to  his  grief,  as  with  trembling  hands  he 
transferred  to  the  new  chest  the  relics  his  wife 
had  cherished  for  so  many  years. 

"We  will  not  look  at  them  now,"  he  said, 
"but  our  new  home  will  seem  the  sweeter  to  us 
because  of  them." 

The  last  article  was  being  deposited  in  the 
chest  when  there  sounded  from  the  door  the  name 
"Amelia!" 

The  girl  raised  her  tear-wret  eyes,  and  recog 
nized  in  the  tall,  bearded  soldier,  who  hastened 
eagerly  toward  her,  her  brother's  friend,  Franz 

186 


Under  the  Tricolor 

Werther.  Her  heart  sank  when  she  saw  that  he 
\\;is  alone. 

"Where" — she  faltered — "where  is  my  broth 
er?" 

"Fritz  sent  me  ahead  to  tell  you  that  he  will 
soon  be  here,"  he  answered. 

In  the  midst  of  the  joyous  exclamations  he 
gently  drew  the  girl  a  little  aside.  Taking  out 
his  pocket  Bible  he  opened  it  and  revealed  a  lock 
of  golden  hair. 

"See,"  he  said,  softly,  "the  hair  of  the  Rhine 
maiden ! — and  it  has  brought  me  back  to  you !" 


187 


A  Maker  of  Violins 

BY 
KATHRYNE    WILSON 


A  Maker  of  Violins 


CAUGHT  in  a  draught  of  sea-air,  the  fog 
curtain  of  nightfall  curled  outward,  and 
swinging  over  the  waters  of  the  Sound, 
folded  itself  above  the  swaying  ships,  shadowy 
wharves  and  gloomy  warehouses  of  the  water 
front,  and  lifted  to  wind  about  the  terracing 
hills  of  the  Bay  City.  Here  a  stronger  gust  bore 
an  edge  of  the  gray  mantle  still  higher,  only  to 
flap  it  idly  around  the  steeple  of  an  old  aban 
doned  church,  where  one  corner,  blowing  into  the 
window  of  the  bell-tower,  brushed  the  seamed 
face  of  a  stubby  little  man  who  sat  on  a  chest, 

191 


Tillicum  Tales 

rubbing  vigorously  with  the  palm  of  his  hand 
the  curved  sides  of  a  violin. 

A  beautifully  formed  creature  was  this  that 
he  held,  with  perfect  poise  of  sloping  shoulders, 
its  bosom  rounding  beneath  the  dusky  satin  skin, 
the  slender  throat  curved  just  enough  to  bear 
gracefully  the  proud  lift  of  the  head — a  figure 
lacking  but  a  touch  of  its  creator  to  render  it  a 
tremulous,  sentient  thing,  with  a  voice  to  set 
one's  soul  to  dreaming. 

The  little  man  lifted  it  high  before  him,  and 
regarded  it  proudly,  tenderly. 

"Thou  art  all  but  perfect,  liebchen"  he  mur 
mured,  in  German,  "at  last  I  have  done  all  I  can 
for  thee.  Tomorrow — " 

A  step  echoed  through  the  deserted  hall  back 
of  the  tower,  and  with  a  whisk  the  violin  dis 
appeared  into  the  chest.  The  nimble  old  hands 
were  busy  with  a  bit  of  unfinished  maple  when 
the  door  was  flung  open  and  there  burst  into  the 
litter  of  the  eight-by-nine  cubbyhole  a  pair  of 
broad  shoulders  supporting  a  shock-head  of  black 
hair,  and  a  face  lined  with  struggle,  rather  than 
years,  but  now  exuberantly  radiant. 

"Friebel,  Friebel!"  cried  the  impetuous  vis 
itor,  "such  a  joy  have  I  had,  such  a  happi 
ness!  I  came  at  once  to  tell  you — I  could  not 
waii>— I— " 

With  a  sweep  of  his  arm  the  old  man  made 
a  place  for  the  new-comer  to  sit. 

"A  joy,  Kulik?"  he  said,  simply,  looking  over 
his  spectacles,  "I  am  glad." 

192 


A  Maker  of  Violins. 

"Ach,  but  let  me  tell  you,"  exclaimed  the 
other,  rapping  the  door-sill  impatiently  in  the  ex 
cess  of  his  enthusiasm.  "The  Virtuoso — the 
givat  Hungarian  Virtuoso — who  plays  in  recital 
at  the  Mctntpole  tomorrow  night — he  is  today 
in  the  city — I  have  seen  him,  and — he  is  my  old 
friend !  The  name  he  bears  is  strange  to  me, 
but  I  mot  him  by  chance  and  I  recognized  him, 
though  it  has  been  ten  years  since  we  were  to 
gether  at  the  academy  at  Budapest.  I  have  come 
but  now  from  a  visit  with  him.  Ah !"  he  mused 
gazing  unseeingly  at  the  piece  of  wood  in  the  old 
man's  hands,  "to  see  him  once  more,  to  talk 
of  the  fatherland,  of  music,  of  old  dreams,  to 
live  again  for  the  moment!" 

Recalled  presently  by  a  movement,  he  dropped 
obediently  into  the  chair  prepared  for  him. 
"Such  a  happiness  it  was,  Friebel,"  he  said, 
with  a  little  sigh,  "but  this  will  please  you  to 
know :  the  Virtuoso — he  has  a  Cremona — " 

"A  Cremona !"  The  little  man  let  his  hands 
fall  on  his  knees  and  gazed  up  at  the  other  in  a 
hungry  kind  of  way.  "A  Cremona!"  he  repeat 
ed,  almost  in  a  whisper. 

"Ja.  irftlil,"  answered  Kulik,  eagerly,  "and, 
Friebel,  I — I  have  played  it!"  The  big  fellow's 
voice  caught  somewhere  and  refused  for  the  mo 
ment  to  serve  him.  "The  Virtuoso  would  know 
how  I  played,  and  he  thrust  the  treasure  into 
my  hands.  I — to  play  a  Cremona!  It  wras  the 
moment  of  my  life,  my  friend,  and  I  played  as  I 
never  thought  I  could  play.  At  the  time,  noth 
ing  was  there  but  that  which  I  should  have  been 

193 


Tillicum  Tales 

— and  the  Cremona.  All  the  possibilities  of  the 
lost  years — I  cried  them  out  in  my  music.  And 
when  I  had  finished,  the  Virtuoso  was  weeping. 
"Why  are  you  lost  away  out  here  at  this  land's 
end  of  the  West,  Kulik?"  he  asked  me.  "What 
have  you  done?" 

"And  then  I  told  him  the  wretched  story. 
Of  what  use  is  genius  when  it  must  grovel  for 
sticks  to  keep  the  pot  boiling?  What  would  you, 
when  to  feed  one's  body  is  to  starve  one's  soul? 
An  orchestra  leader  in  a  melodrama  theater,  I, 
who  ten  years  ago  had  a  future  no  less  than  he ! 
But  for  him — help,  money — for  me,  my  fingers 
and  a  bauble  of  wood  and  catgut.  Even  a  genius 
cannot  make  music  on  an  old  shoe! 

"Friebel,  it  rent  me  in  a  thousand  pieces  to 
tell  him.  But  he  was  kind!  He  shook  me  by 
the  shoulders.  He  berated  me  for  not  letting  him 
know,  cursed  my  miserable  pride,  demanded 
what  right  I  had  to  deny  him  a  chance  to  serve 
his  art.  And  I — I  laughed.  I  could  not  have 
borne  his  pity. 

"And  so  I  have  this  to  tell  you:  to-morrow 
I  go  away  to  study,  to  work,  to  live.  He  will 
help  me,  and  one  day  I  will  make  him  glad.  But 
to-morrow — I  go  to  Vienna." 

On  the  last  word  he  stammered  a  little,  and 
his  hands  took  to  fumbling,  in  his  awkwardness, 
with  a  bit  of  shaving  picked  up  from  the  chest 
where  Friebel  sat.  In  the  silence  that  followed, 
the  two  friends  avoided  each  other's  eyes. 

It  was  Friebel  who  bridged  the  gap.  "To 
have  found  a  friend,"  he  mused,  softly,  after  a 

194 


A  Maker  of  Violins. 

moment,  "and  to  have  played  a  Cremona!  It  is 
enough  for  a  life-time."  Leaning  forward,  he 
stretched  out  his  hand,  and  the  two  gripped  in  a 
silent  sympathy. 

Outside,  the  desolate  tooting  of  fog-whistles 
from  isolated  boats  in  the  harbor  was  borne  up 
the  heights  with  the  coughing  of  engines  in  the 
railroad  yards,  the  clang  of  street-car  bells,  the 
rattle  of  the  passing  cable  in  its  socket,  the  clat 
ter  of  feet  on  the  pavement  and  the  raucous 
shouts  of  voices  below.  Just  without  the  win 
dow,  a  garishly  gilded  violin  swung  creakily 
from  the  casement,  the  only  sign  to  an  indifferent 
world  of  the  humble  violin-maker  within,  drudg 
ing  alone,  day  by  day,  in  his  gloomy  little 
cell,  where  now  the  flickering  saffron  light  from 
the  oil-lamp  cast  weird,  incongruous  shadows--- 
a  pitiably  lonely,  joyless  place  to  bury  a  life  in — 
life  that  held  so  many  possibilities,  so  many 
beautiful  compensations! 

All  at  once,  Kulik  burst  out,  protestingly. 

"The  whole  long  day  and  late  at  night  dc 
you  sit  here  in  your  musty  tower  like  an  owl, 
Friebel.  Always  these  horrible  noises  about  you 
—the  clash,  shriek,  rattle,  clang  of  the  city — 
none  but  ugly  sounds  to  hear.  How  can  you 
bear  it?" 

"I  do  not  hear  it,  Kulik.    I  am  too  busy." 

"That  is  it!  Too  busy — always  too  busy — 
and  all  around  you  hammers  and  files,  chisels 
and  glue,  strings  and  skeletons  of  fiddles — never 
a  beautiful  thing  to  look  upon!" 

195 


Tillicum  Tales 

The  violin-maker  smiled  to  himself,  and  bent 
over  to  close  the  window,  shutting  out  the  blare 
of  noises. 

"Tell  me — about  the  Cremona,"  he  said,  tent 
atively.  "How  does  she  look?  Like  what  is  her 
voice?" 

"Ah,  Friebel,  a  fairy,  a  sylph!  She  is  ex 
quisite  as  a  sea-shell,  with  the  voice  of  a  Lore 
lei!  If  you  could  but  see  her,  hear  her!" 

"Yes,"  murmured  Friebel,  softly,  "yes!"  And 
his  busy  hands  fell  inert  once  more.  Over  his 
mind  flashed  a  thought  of  the  prohibitive  fee  for 
the  recital  to-morrow  night — prohibitive  even  for 
a  remote  gallery  seat  where  the  sound  is  all  but 
inaudible — the  sound  that  he  yearned  to  hear — 
the  tone  of  a  Cremona. 

Kulik  looked  up  quickly  at  the  inarticulate 
whisper  and  caught  the  eager,  wistful  smile. 
For  a  moment  he  gazed  upon  the  bent  figure, 
the  grizzled  head,  the  dream-set  eyes — then  he 
was  on  his  feet,  pacing  feverishly  the  limits  of 
the  crowded  room.  When  he  presently  stood  be 
fore  the  little  man — it  was  with  the  air  of  hav 
ing  made  a  great  discovery. 

"Look,  Friebel,"  he  cried,  eagerly,  "I  have 
a  plan.  To-night,  as  you  know,  my  poor  melo 
drama  theatre  over  the  way  is  to  see  the  appear 
ance  of  a  great  actress,  all  the  better  houses 
being  taken.  For  the  occasion  we  have  been 
practicing  the  music  these  many  days — Wilhelm 
Telly  a  Beethoven  Sonata,  a  Mozart  Caprice,  COA> 
alleria — a  rare  feast  for  ragtime  ballad-players! 

196 


A  Maker  of  Violins. 

"Now,  this  night  you  shall  come  to  the  theatre 
with  me — you  shall  sit  near  where  you  can  hear 
the  Cremona — for  I  will  ask  the  Virtuoso  to  lend 
it  to  me.  For  once  you  shall  know  what  it  is 
to  look  upon  a  beautiful  thing,  to  hear  a  siren 
song.  For  once  you  shall  feast  your  soul." 

Already  he  was  at  the  door,  but  Friebal 
caught  him  by  the  arm.  "Kulik!"  he  command 
ed  the  other,  as  he  would  a  child,  "  come  back. 
You  must  not  ask  so  much." 

But  he  was  shaken  off.  "I  ask  not  for  my 
self — I  ask  for  you — and  it  is  nothing,  this  last 
night.  He  will  trust  me  with  it,  and  you  shall 
hear  the  Cremona." 

Without  further  parleying,  he  dashed  away 
through  the  gaping  hall,  leaving  the  old  man  in 
the  doorway,  helpless,  in  a  storm  of  protest. 
Only  Friebel  knew  what  it  wrould  cost  the  pride 
of  his  friend  to  ask  so  much ;  only  Friebel  knew 
how  to  repay  it. 

Shuffling  back  into  the  room,  he  bent  over 
the  chest  and  lifted  the  hidden  violin  from  its 
case.  Mechanically  he  stroked  it's  throat.  To 
be  so  near — to  see,  to  hear,  perhaps  to  touch  a 
Cremona — after  all  these  years — at  last  to  be 
able  to  prove — with  a  sudden  emotion  he  stared 
down  at  the  object  in  his  hands.  An  impulse 
had  seized  him. 

"Liebchen,"  he  muttered,  under  his  breath, 
"you  shall  hear,  too !  We  will  go  together,  you 
and  I.  You  shall  see  what  it  is  to  be  a  Cremona, 
klein<e,  for  the  good  of  your  soul.  You  would 
like  to  go — yes?"  The  question  was  put  mis- 

197 


Tillicum  Tales 

chievously  as  to  a  child  whose  delight  were  un 
questionable. 

"But  you  are  not  in  proper  dress,  liebchen*/' 
he  protested,  whimsically.  "You  must  be  per 
fectly  adorned  for  the  theatre.  Let  us  see — let 
— us — see — " 

From  a  drawer  he  took  out  a  bundle  of  strings 
and  infinite  pains  were  exercised  in  the  selection 
of  four.  These  fastened  in  place,  adjusted  to 
the  bridge  and  thrummed  into  tune,  he  took  from 
its  hook  a  slender  bow,  lifted  the  instrument  to 
his  breast,  and  touched  it  into  life. 

"You  would  like  to  go,  little  Crema?"  he 
teased.  "Then  tell  me  how  much." 

Softly,  quaveringly,  the  spirit  of  the  violin 
murmured  in  his  ear;  plaintively,  appealingly, 
it  besought  the  heart  of  its  maker.  And  while 
it  spoke,  the  gray  head  drooped  toward  the  trem 
bling  form,  lower  and  lower,  until  the  furrowed 
cheek  rested  against  the  satiny  body.  Then  with 
tears  on  his  lashes,  little  Friebel  pressed  tremu 
lous  lips  to  his  treasure.  "Twenty  years,"  he 
whispered,  brokenly,  "twenty  years !" 

When,  later,  Friebel  took  his  chair  near  Ku- 
lik,  in  the  shadow  of  the  footlights,  there  was  all 
about  him  the  bewilderment  of  unwonted  things. 
Dazzle  of  myriad  light  bulbs,  flare  of  lavish 
gilding  and  gaudy  trappings,  glare  of  exit  signs 
above  narrow  doorways,  rustle  of  skirts,  thump 
of  lowered  seats,  murmur  of  babbling  voices  and 
a  sea  of  faces  billowing  above  him — he  was  en 
gulfed  in  a  flood  of  light,  and  color,  and  sound. 

198 


A  Maker  of  Violins. 

But  to  him  it  was  all  as  nothing.  Every 
sense  of  sight  and  hearing  was  focused  upon  the 
chestnut-hued,  slenderly  graceful  thing  that  the 
leader  wras  holding  reverently  in  the  full  glare  of 
light, 

Kulik  flashed  him  a  radiant  look.  "Is  she  not 
a  beauty,  a  sprite?"  it  seemed  to  say,  and  the 
violin-maker,  after  a  hungry,  absorbing  gaze, 
took  a  deep  breath,  and  smiled. 

"Beautiful,  yes,"  he  answered  to  himself, 
"elfin,  yes.  But  so  is — " 

A  wave  of  sound  drowned  his  half-spoken 
words,  and  the  orchestra  was  launched  upon  the 
full  tide  of  the  overture  to  Wilhelm  Tell.  It 
had  been  long  since  the  old  German  had  had  an 
opportunity  to  disport  himself  in  such  a  flood 
of  harmony  as  poured  about  him  now,  and  yet 
he  was  unconscious  at  first  of  anything  but  the 
nearness  of  a  life-long  yearning  about  to  be  grati 
fied. 

Eager  with  expectancy  for  the  first  note,  his 
keen  ear  caught  it  as  it  trembled  from  the  Cre 
mona — a  note  whose  ravishing,  mellow  richness, 
whose  throbbing  resonance  he  had  heard  equaled 
— once;  a  note  in  whose  depths  were  lost  in  a 
moment  all  the  doubts  of  twenty  years.  At  the 
moment  of  his  greatest  pain  little  Friebel  was 
triumphantly  happy.  His  Crema  was  vindi 
cated  ! 

This  was  what  he  had  waited  for — what  he 
had  longed  for — what  he  had  prayed  for — to  hear 
the  tone  of  a  Cremona,  that  he  might  compare 
with  it  the  tone  of  his  Crema — that  he  might 

199 


Tillicum  Tales 

vindicate  his  own.  Now,  he  could  listen  sanely- 
could  drink  in  thirstily  the  limpid  ripples  of  ex 
quisite  melody  that  flowed  around  him.  But  al 
ways,  as  he  listened,  his  fingers  stroked  the  curv 
ed  throat  of  the  violin  lying  in  its  open  case 
upon  his  knee.  "You  are  hearing  a  Cremona, 
liebchen,"  he  whispered  once,  "but  thou  hast  a 
voice  as  sweet — thou  hast  a  voice  as  sweet!" 

It  was  in  an  interval  between  the  acts,  when 
Kulik  rested  the  Cremona  on  the  rack  for  a  mo 
ment,  that  the  idea  came  to  him,  and  then  with 
the  force  of  a  blow.  For  an  instant  he  seemed 
to  become  deaf  and  dumb  and  blind.  But  with 
the  clearing  of  his  senses,  the  thought  lost  its 
stunning  power.  To — be — sure — to  prove  by 
some  one  else — to  make  the  test  a  perfect  one — 
there  could  be  no  wrong?  Even  as  he  weighed 
it  the  opportunity  seemed  strangely  to  favor 
him ;  the  lights  in  the  house  went  out  for  the  rise 
of  the  curtain.  On  the  impulse  Friebel  acted. 

A  stoop,  a  click,  a  turn  of  the  wrist,  and  the 
Cremona  slept  in  the  box  beneath  his  hand.  A 
slide,  and  the  Crema  lay  on  the  rack.  When 
the  lights  from  the  stage  flashed  out  on  them, 
Friebel  sat  quietly  as  before,  but  he  was  con 
scious  that  his  hands  twitched  nervously. 

In  an  ache  of  suspense,  he  watched  the  prep 
aration  for  the  next  number.  His  music  arrang 
ed,  the  leader  took  up  the  violin,  picking  the 
strings  tentatively.  A  little  matter  of  tuning 
seemed  to  annoy  him,  and  for  the  moment  Frie 
bel  hardly  dared  to  breathe.  But  in  harmony 
again  at  once,  Kulik  looked  up  for  a  compan- 

200 


A  Maker  of  Violins. 

ionable  sinile,  raised  the  instrument  and  gave 
the  signal  to  play.  At  the  movement,  Friebel 
relaxed  in  his  chair,  and  his  lips  moved  noise 
lessly. 

It  was  the  Beethoven  Sonata  now,  and  the 
first  violin  was  given  every  opportunity  in  the 
complicated  movements  that  followed.  As  if  in 
spired  by  an  unseen  presence,  Kulik  seemed  to 
lose  himself  in  a  kind  of  communion.  He  kissed 
the  strings  with  his  bow,  he  caressed  the  swan- 
throat  with  trembling  fingers,  he  seemed  intoxi 
cated  with  the  instrument's  very  nearness.  On 
and  on  he  played,  ecstatically,  rapturously,  and 
when  the  sonata  came  to  a  close  with  the  stately 
tread  of  a  minuet,  Kulik  bore  the  look  of  one  who 
had  trod  the  measure  with  Saint  Cecilia  herself. 

And  hungrily  FriebePs  eyes  devoured  him, 
losing  not  a  single  evidence  of  the  delight  in 
which  the  player  reveled,  gloating  over  the  joy 
of  his  victory.  For  the  great,  beautiful  truth 
that  loomed  up  before  Friebel  was  this:  that 
through  it  all  Kulik  did  not  know  it  was  not  the 
Cremona  he  held  to  his  cheek.  The  violin-maker 
hugged  himself  in  the  triumph  of  it  Kulik  did 
not  know ! 

At  the  end  of  the  play,  Friebel  groped  out 
through  the  gloom  of  the  passage  ahead  of  the 
violinist,  and  led  the  way  across  through  the 
haze  of  the  street.  Once  within  the  work-shop, 
and  the  flickering  lamp  lighted,  he  turned  to  his 
companion. 

"Now  you  may  give  me  my  violin,  Kulik," 
he  observed. 

201 


Tillicum  Tales 

The  young  man  stared,  then  smiled,  lenient 
ly.  "You  have  it  in  your  hand,"  he  said. 

"Ah,  so?  I  am  not  so  sure,"  mused  the  little 
man,  "but  look  and  see." 

"I  have  the  Cremona,  Friebel,  as  you  know," 
expostulated  Kulik,  but  he  began  fumbling  in 
dulgently  at  the  catch  while  he  spoke.  Stoop 
ing  to  lift  the  violin  from  its  case,  he  held  it  up 
convincingly  to  the  feeble  light,  as  he  added: 
"See!  Of  course  I  have  not  yours.  This  is 
the — "  Suddenly  bending  closer,  he  turned  the 
instrument  about,  uttered  a  low  cry,  and  grew 
white. 

"The  Cremona — where  is  it?  This  is  not  it! 
Where  is  it?"  and  he  stared  wildly  about  him. 

"It  is  here,"  Friebel  hastened  to  assure  him. 
"I  have  it." 

"You!  How  did  you  come  by  it?  Have  I 
been  out  of  my  senses?" 

The  violin-maker  explained  in  a  word  the 
substitution.  "And  you  knew  it  not,  Kulik," 
he  exclaimed,  fairly  gurgling  in  his  glee,  "you 
knew  it  not!" 

His  victim  regarded  him  ruefully,  half  an 
grily.  "It  was  a  poor  joke  to  play  upon  me, 
Friebel,"  was  his  comment.  "But,"  with  sud 
den  recollection,  "what,  then,  is  this  one  that  I 
have  played  all  evening,  this  with  the  marvelous 
tone,  this  that  has  gripped  my  very  soul  to 
night?" 

"It  is  mine,  Kulik.  I  made  it.  It  has  taken 
me  twenty  years,  but  it  is  worth  the  while.  You 
knew  it  not  from  the  Cremona." 

202 


A  Maker  of  VioUns. 

The  player  seized  him,  almost  roughly,  by  the 
shoulder. 

"You  tell  me  that  you  have  made  a  violin 
that  one  cannot  tell  from  a  Cremona?  It  is  im 
possible  !" 

"Nothing  is  impossible  to  patience  and  faith, 
boy,"  said  the  other,  in  gentle  reproof.  "Of  a 
labor  of  love  it  came.  When  Elspeth  died,  and 
the  child,  it  was  all  that  was  left  me.  Into  it 
have  gone  the  joys  of  twenty  years.  The  trick- 
it  was  but  to  prove  my  little  Crema,  Kulik!  For 
her  sake,  you  will  forgive?" 

Impulsively  the  younger  man  took  the  hand 
of  the  older  in  both  his  own.  "Forgive?  I  re 
joice  for  you !  Now  you  need  not  work  so  hard. 
Your  fortune  is  made.  The  instrument  will  bring 
you  hundreds — perhaps  a  thousand  dollars." 

Friebel  sprang  to  his  feet.  "What?"  he  cried, 
in  indignation,  "sell  her,  my  beautiful  Crema,  I, 
who  have  watched  her  grow  for  twenty  years? 
Could  I  be  so  cruel  to  the  liebchen.?"  In  a  pas 
sion  of  jealousy,  he  snatched  the  violin  to  him. 

"But  a  rest,  Friebel—" 

"Rest?  And  give  up  the  joy  of  my  work? 
Can  you  say  this,  Kulik?" 

"Ah,  no,  no!"  the  other  hastened  in  his  peni 
tence  to  protest.  "You  see  what  this  life-strug 
gle  has  done  to  me !  No,  I  understand.  It  is  all 
we  have — the  work !"  As  he  spoke,  he  was  gazing 
admiringly,  thoughtfully  at  the  instrument  in 
the  maker's  hands.  "Twenty  years!"  he  mar 
veled.  "It  is  not  too  long!  To  create  a  perfect, 

203 


Tillicum  Tales 

a  beautiful  thing — can  there  be  a  greater  joy 
than  that?" 

The  maker  of  violins  took  an  eager  step  to 
ward  him,  and  held  out  his  hands,  his  face  illum 
ined. 

"But  yes — one  greater  thing,  Kulik,"  he  said, 
"to  share  the  joy.  Take  the  little  Crema,  boy — 
she  is  yours.  Long  have  I  meant  her  for  you. 
Take  her  with  you  to  Vienna,  and  give  old 
Friebel  a  little  part  in  the  fullness  of  the  future 
years." 

For  a  moment  Kulik  stood  there,  speechless. 
Then  with  an  inarticulate  cry,  he  flung  his  arms 
about  the  old  man. 

And  so  it  was  in  the  moment  of  their  first 
perfect  nearness  that  the  two  friends  said  their 
last  farewell,  but  it  is  was  not  little  Friebel  who 
wept. 


204 


An  Extenuating 
Circumstance 

BY 
E.  ADELIA    LOW 


An  Extenuating 
Circumstance 


(JSP  HE  business  day  of  Mr.  Hayward  had 
•il/  been  long  and  trying,  but  at  its  close, 
seated  comfortably  before  an  open  fire, 
his  wife  beside  him,  an  interesting  book  in  his 
hand,  life  seemed  very  much  worth  while  to  this 
blase  man  of  the  world. 

"Married  two  months,  Dorothy,  dear — here 
we  are — you  with  your  work  and  I  with  my  book, 
settled  down  as  cosily  as  if  it  had  always  been," 
he  remarked,  lazily  stretching  himself. 

"How  foolish  of  us  not  to  have  been  married 
long  ago,"  he  continued,  looking  up  into  his 
wife's  sensitive  face.  In  his  present  contentment 
he  had  obviously  lost  sight  of  the  real  reason  for 
their  long  delay — his  own  indifference. 

Mrs.  Hayward  glanced  up  from  her  flimsy 
bit  of  work,  and  smiled  sympathetically.  "Here 
is  a  letter  which  I  meant  to  give  you  before  din 
ner,"  she  said,  as  she  handed  it  to  him  across 
the  table. 

He  held  her  hand  in  his  a  moment,  giving  it 
a  little  squeeze  before  releasing  it,  to  open  his 
letter. 

207 


Tillicum  Tales 

"Is  there  any  bad  news,  dear?"  she  said  as 
she  caught  his  look  of  distress. 

"Yes — rather.  It  tells  me  of  the  death  of  an 
old  friend — Mildred  Shaw.  You  never  knew  her, 
though,  did  you?" 

"No;  she  was  here  the  winter  that  I  was 
East.  Was  she  a  very  dear  friend?" 

"She  did  me  a  great  favor  once,  for  which  I 
can  never  be  too  grateful,"  he  replied,  thought 
fully,  as  he  folded  the  letter  and  slowly  put  it 
back  into  its  envelope.  "We  drove  together  on 
the  desert  a  good  deal  that  winter  and  I  found 
her  very  witty  and  amusing,  though  somewhat 
irresponsible  at  times.  She  always  said  and  did 
the  unexpected,  and  often  that  unexpected  was 
extremely  sensible.  Ah,  well!"  (putting  the  let 
ter  in  his  pocket)  "that's  over — she  has  solved 
her  mysteries." 

He  sat,  reminiscently  silent,  looking  into  the 
fire.  "Not  your  kind  of  a  woman  at  all,"  he  re 
sumed.  "You  were  so  shy  and  reserved  before 
we  were  married,  Dorothy,  I  hardly  knew  you, 
and  at  times  I  am  not  sure  that  I  do  now — alto 
gether.  You  are  so  unlike  any  other  woman — 
therein  lies  your  charm,"  smiling  and  reaching 
his  hand  across  the  table  for  hers. 

"How  am  I  different?"  she  asked,  laying  her 
hand  in  his  outstretched  one. 

"I  can't  explain,  exactly.  Sometimes  you  are 
as  warm  and  sunny  and  intimate  as  this  fasci 
nating  Southern  climate;  then  I  catch  glimpses 
of  heights  and  depths  as  mysterious  and  unfath 
omable  as  the  canons,  and  again  I  come  upon 

208 


An  Extenuating  Circumstance 

such  stretches  of  reserve  that  I  feel  like  a  trav 
eler  lost  in  the  desert,  but  I  have  the  intrepidity 
of  the  born  explorer.  I  shall  find  you  some  day." 

Mrs.  Hayward  rose  from  her  seat  beside  the 
table,  leaned  over  the  back  of  her  husband's 
chair,  kissed  him,  and  lightly  stroked  his  cheek. 

"So  you  find  me  rather  of  a  puzzle?"  she 
laughed.  "Love  is  the  magic  key  to  most  women 
puzzles — if  held  by  the  right  person,"  she  added 
archly,  as  she  sat  down  on  the  arm  of  his  chair. 

Without  replying,  he  put  one  arm  around  her, 
and  with  the  other  hand  turned  low  the  lamp. 
The  magical  firelight  played  over  everything, 
throwing  their  faces  now  into  light,  now  into 
shadow,  while  there  stole  over  them  a  blissful  si 
lence.  Absorbed  in  thought,  they  sat,  silent  as 
the  great  desert.  Its  majestic  stillness  had  taught 
Dorothy  Hayward  the  futility  of  speech,  and 
given  her  an  acquired  calmness  and  strength  for 
eign  to  many  women.  It  was^this  poise,  gained 
by  her  long  life  in  the  desert  country,  that  baf 
fled  her  husband. 

A  knock  aroused  them.  Mr.  Hayward  turned 
up  the  light  and  went  to  the  door. 

"A  message,  sir." 

He  took  the  note  from  the  servant's  hand, 
rapidly  scanned  its  contents,  and  turning  to  his 
wife,  said :  "A  line  from  Sumner — wants  me  to 
meet  him  at  the  club  to  talk  over  that  mining 
scheme.  It's  important,  and  I'm  afraid  I'll  have 
to  go.  I'll  be  home  as  early  as  possible,  but  if 
I'm  late  don't  wait  up  for  me.  There  are  some 
new  books  in  my  den  that  may  interest  you. 

209 


Tillicum  Tales 

What  a  nuisance  this  going  out  again  is !"  he  ex 
claimed,  as  he  put  on  his  coat  and  hat  in  the  hall. 
A  moment  he  held  his  wife  in  his  arms,  kissed 
her,  and  was  gone. 

Returning  to  the  sitting  room,  Mrs.  Hay- 
ward  rang  her  bell.  "Betty,  please  ask  the  cook 
to  prepare  a  light  supper  for  Mr.  Hayward,  as 
he  has  gone  out  and  will  not  be  home  until  late. 
I  think  I  shall  not  need  you  to-night.  If  I  do 
I  will  ring.  Good-night." 

Left  alone,  Mrs.  Hayward  seated  herself  in 
her  husband's  chair,  before  the  fire,  and  began 
to  read,  but  nothing  interested  her;  her  book 
dropped,  unnoticed,  to  her  lap,  while  she  sat  gaz 
ing  into  the  fire,  exulting  and  gloating  over  her 
happiness.  A  delicious  thrill  went  through  her 
as  she  pictured  the  long,  delightful  years  ahead 
of  her  as  "George's  wife."  To  satisfy  herself 
that  it  was  real  and  not  a  dream  she  suddenly 
arose  and  went  into  the  next  room — his  den. 

What  a  man's  odor  there  was  all  about,  and 
how  she  loved  this  room,  filled,  as  it  was,  with 
his  personality!  She  dropped  into  a  chair,  be 
side  the  desk,  laid  her  cheek  lovingly  for  a  mo 
ment  on  his  writing  pad,  impulsively  took  up  his 
pen  and  kissed  it,  and  laughing  foolishly  to  her 
self,  buried  her  face  in  his  house-coat,  which  he 
had  carelessly  left  on  a  chair.  So  completely  did 
he  possess  her  that  she  loved  even  the  odor  of  his 
clothes,  his  books — everything  belonging  to  him. 
A  gentle,  masterful  man  she  found  him,  and  she 
gloried  in  his  power  over  her. 

210 


An  Extenuating  Circumstance 

She  looked  aimlessly  about,  until  her  eyes 
fell  upon  the  new  books  which  he  had  mentioned. 
She  picked  up  one  after  another,  and  finding 
none  of  them  attractive,  went  to  the  book-case 
and  selected  an  old  favorite,  and,  returning  again 
to  the  sitting  room,  settled  herself  to  read.  Idly 
she  turned  the  leaves,  stopping  occasionally  to 
note  some  marked  passage  or  recall  the  tones  of 
her  husband's  voice,  while  he  had  read  them  to 
her.  As  she  held  the  book  to  the  light  for  n. 
closer  inspection,  a  paper  fell  out.  There  was 
no  address,  and  absently  she  opened  the  paper 
and  read: 
"Dear  George : — 

"You  ask  my  advice  about  your  marriage.  I 
should  say  it  is  the  only  honorable  thing  to  do 
after  so  long  an  engagement.  You  may  not  love 
her  now,  but  you  will  in  time.  She  is  worth 
a  hundred  such  women  as  I  am.  Take  my  advice 
and  don't  delay.  Yours  sincerely, 

«M .» 

"How  came  this  letter  in  this  book?"  she 
queried.  "Who  wrote  it  and  to  whom  was  it 
written*01 

"Dear  George"  might  mean  her  husband. 
Could  it?  Was  she  the  person  George  was  ad 
vised  to  marry?  The  thought  was  unbearable. 
All  the  poise  acquired  with  her  maturer  years 
deserted  her,  and  she  became  again  the  passion 
ate,  impulsive  girl  of  her  early  youth.  She  could 
not  sit  still,  but  paced  about  the  room,  her  brain 
in  a  whirl,  running  her  fingers  through  her  hair, 
as  if  to  collect  her  thoughts,  and  then  beating 

211 


Tillicum  Tales 

the  palm  of  one  hand  with  the  closed  fingers  of 
the  other.  She  stopped  suddenly  in  her  walk, 
with  a  half-frightened  look.  She  remembered  the 
long  engagement  and  subsequent  hasty  marriage. 
Gould  it  be  possible  she  had  given  herself  to  a 
man  who  did  not  love  her?  Rapidly  she  reviewed 
many  unconscious  acts  of  her  husband's,  and  as 
she  did  so,  there  came  to  her  calmer  thoughts 
and  greater  trust.  As  she  sank  back  into  the 
depths  of  his  easy-chair,  she  asked  herself  why 
she  had  been  so  foolish.  "Why  should  I  hold 
George  responsible  for  this  note !"  she  exclaimed. 
"He  may  not  know  any  more  about  it  than  I  do — 
and,  yet — "  She  resolved  to  ask  him  about  it 
when  he  returned,  certain  that  he  would  tell  her 
the  truth — but  what  was  the  truth? 

She  almost  hoped,  if  the  letter  were  his,  that 
he  would  tell  her  a  falsehood  rather  than  such  a 
ghastly  truth.  The  desolation  of  the  years  to 
come  without  his  love  would  be  unbearable. 

The  minutes  went  by,  and  with  them  some 
of  her  distrust  and  agony.  She  gradually  became 
calmer,  and  as  she  did  so,  she  hated  herself  for 
her  loss  of  self-control  and  injustice  to  her  hus 
band. 

At  last  the  sound  of  carriage  wheels  aroused 
her,  and  by  the  time  Mr.  Hayward  came  up  the 
steps  and  put  his  key  in  the  latch,  she  had  com 
pletely  mastered  herself. 

"Why,  Dorothy,"  he  exclaimed  with  pleased 
surprise,  as  she  opened  the  door  for  him,  "how 
good  of  you  to  wait  up  for  me!"  Quietly  dis 
posing  of  his  hat  and  coat,  and  putting  his  arm 

212 


An  Extenuating  Circumstance 

around  her,  they  passed  into  the  sitting-room. 
"How  have  you  spent  the  evening?  Did  you  find 
the  new  books  interesting?"  he  asked. 

Mrs.  Hay  ward  returned  only  a  faint  smile  in 
answer,  but  noticing  the  tired  look  about  his 
eyes  rang  the  bell  for  the  supper  she  had  ordered. 

"Jove,  but  it  seems  good  to  be  home  again," 
he  said,  as  he  wearily  sat  down  before  the  fire, 
and  put  on  his  slippers. 

The  shaded  light,  the  bright  fire  and  the  cosy 
supper,  together  with  his  wife's  companionship 
rested  and  soothed  him.  "How  do  you  suppose 
I  ever  managed  so  long  without  you,  girlie?" 
he  said,  gaily,  as  he  passed  her  the  sugar.  "His 
gray  eyes  darkened  and  glowed  as  he  looked  at 
her;  his  heart  was  so  full  of  the  joy  of  her  fra 
grant  presence  that  it  was  not  until  late  when 
they  were  seated  together  on  the  couch  that  he 
noticed  her  abstraction. 

"You  look  a  little  pale,  my  dear — headache 
again?" 

"No,  I  haven't  a  headache,"  she  replied  ab 
sently,  as  she  arose  and  crossed  the  room  to  the 
table.  She  picked  up  a  paper,  and  looking  at 
him  question ingly,  continued,  as  she  held  it  to 
ward  him.  "This  fell  out  of  a  book  I  was  read 
ing  this  evening,  but  I  am  sure  it  cannot  be  ad 
dressed  to  you — is  it?" 

Mr.  Hayward  started.  As  she  held  it  in  her 
hand,  he  recognized  it  instantly.  He  knew  it  to  be 
from  Mildred  Shaw,  and  the  one  which  he  must 
have  carelessly  thrust  into  that  book.  Was  it  the 
one  which  might  destroy  his  happiness  and  wreck 

213 


Tillicum  Tales 

both  their  lives?  Had  he  not  burned  it  after  all? 
Fool!  He  never  knew  until  this  moment  how 
much  he  loved  his  wife,  nor  how  dear  her  love 
and  trust  was  to  him.  Mildred  Shaw  was  dead. 
His  determination  was,  therefore,  quickly  reach 
ed.  Dorothy's  love — Dorothy's  absolute  trust 
was  too  precious  to  be  risked  for  a  moment's 
weakness,  to  be  lost  for  a  paltry  note  which 
should  have  been  burned  months  before. 

With  no  sign  of  surprise  or  other  emotion 
in  his  face,  with  every  muscle  under  absolute 
control,  he  rose,  and  going  toward  her,  he  said, 
quietly :  "Let  me  see  it,  Dorothy." 

"Oh,  George,"  she  cried,  passionately,  as  she 
handed  it  to  him:  "It  wasn't  written  to  you, 
was  it?  Say  it  wasn't!  I  love  you — I  trust 
you — but — oh,  say  it!  Tell  me  it  is  not  your 
letter,  and  that  you  do  love  me!" 

Striving  bravely  to  keep  back  the  tears  and  to 
still  her  quivering  lips,  she  watched  every  flicker 
of  his  face  as  he  read  the  letter.  Keenly  con* 
scious  of  her  intense  gaze,  conscious  also  of  what 
absolute  self-mastery  meant  at  that  moment,  he 
finished  reading,  and  then  quietly  threw  it  into 
the  open  fire.  Without  a  word  he  held  out  his 
arms,  and  as  she  buried  her  face  on  his  breast, 
and  he  crushed  her  passionately  to  him,  he  mur 
mured:  "No,  Dorothy,  dear,  the  letter  is  not 
mine,  and  I  do  love  you.  Harris  borrowed  the 
book  and  returned  it  only  yesterday;  but  if  it 
were — could  you  love  and  trust  me  still?" 

She  raised  her  tearful  eyes  to  his,  and  in  them 
he  read  his  answer. 

214 


An  Extenuating  Circumstance 

Worshipfully,  reverently,  he  kissed  her  brow 
— her  eyes — her  hair.  "God!"  he  exclaimed, 
brokenly,  "I'm  not  worthy  of  so  great  a  love — 


no  man  is." 


215 


Ye  Tithe  Mint  and  Rue 

BY 
EMMA   B.    EDWARDS 


Ye  Tithe  Mint 
and  Rue 

T  was  their  last  walk  together  be 
fore  Jean  left.  They  stopped 
once  at  Margaret  McDonald's 
cottage,  where  Jean  went  in  to 
say  goodbye  to  her  friend. 

"God  bless  yon  and  keep  you, 
dearie,  until  you  come  back  to 
us,"  the  gentle  old  voice  said, 
tremulously.  "It  almost  seems  to 
us  here  that  you  know  enough 
now,  but  you  have  worked  hard 
to  go — only  come  home  to  us  the 
same  sweet,  leal  lassie  we  all 
love,  and  I  guess  the  extra  book- 
learning  won't  hurt  you  much. 
You'll  be  a  splendid  minister's 
wife,  my  child." 
"I  want  to  be  worthy  of  Donald,  Mother 
Margaret,  and  worthy  of  the  beautiful, 
helpful  life  I  can  live  here  among  you. 
It  will  be  only  twro  years  away,  you  know, 
and  Donald  will  be  gone,  too,  then  we'll 
come  home  together,  stronger  and  wiser 
to  consecrate  ourselves  to  our  work — the 
Lord's  work,"  she  added  reverently. 

As  Jean  came  from  the  cottage  Donald 
drew  her  arm  within  his,  turning  her 
footsteps  backward. 

"Just  a  little  longer,  Jean,  girl,  this 
last  evening  is  so  short.  I  won't  see  you 
for  two  years,  Jean." 

219 


Tillicum  Tales 

Jean's  lashes  were  wet,  but  she  tried  to  com 
fort.  "The  time  will  pass,  wonderfully  fast, 
Donald  boy.  You  will  be  absorbed  in  your  the 
ological  study,  and  then,  of  course,  very  soon 
you  will  be  assigned  a  charge  for  the  Sabbath 
services.  You  must  write  me  long,  long  letters, 
dear,  telling  me  about  every  bit  of  your  work 
and  about  every  bit  of  your  heart,  too,  Donald. " 

"And  you,  Jean,  do  you  feel  timid  about  go 
ing  East  to  the  big  college?  Does  your  heart 
fail  you?" 

Jean  clung  closer  to  his  arm  as  she  answered, 
"I  fee  a  wee  bit  timid,  Donald.  But  mother  al 
ways  wanted  me  to  go  home  to  her  own  college — 
it  was  her  dearest  wish  for  me.  Because  of  that 
I  am  the  more  glad  to  be  able  to  take  my  post 
graduate  course  there.  Then,  too,  I  want  the 
training  and  culture  for  myself.  I  shall  be  more 
worthy  of  our  work,  and  not  a  bit  spoiled,  boy, 
really  not  a  bit  spoiled." 

For  the  first  months  the  new  life  into  which 
Jean  went,  was  bewildering  in  its  multiplicity 
of  interests,  and  unpleasantly  strange  in  its  nerv 
ous  tension.  She  often  longed  for  the  serene 
ways,  and  simple  duties  of  her  home  village. 
Gradually,  as  the  weeks  went,  she  lost  her  tim 
idity  and  self-consciousness,  and  began  to  ad 
just  herself  to  the  new  conditions,  and  to  enjoy 
the  sparkle  and  excitement  of  college  life. 

It  was  precisely  her  entire  unconsciousness 
of  her  charm,  that  made  her  so  irresistibly 
charming  to  everyone.  She  was  natural,  sweet 
and  direct  in  manner,  with  a  sincere  courtesy 

220 


Ye  Tithe  Mint  ami  Rue 

and  tranquil  womanly  poise.  There  was  no 
shadow  of  apathy  about  her  despite  her  serenity. 
She  was  very  keenly  alive,  but  alive  without 
nervous  fussiness,  or  a  straining  after  conscious 
approval.  Her  mind  was  fine  and  clear,  with 
an  analytical  faculty  rare  among  young  women. 
Her  delight  in  her  work,  and  her  enthusiasm 
unvacillating,  made  her  sure  friends  among  the 
faculty  members. 

Between  Donald  and  Jean  passed  long,  newsy, 
confidential  letters.  Jean  wrote  without  reserve 
of  her  life,  her  new  friends,  her  new  thoughts, 
and  of  her  happy  anticipation  of  their  life  serv 
ice  together  when  Donald  should  be  ordained. 
Donald  drew  sketches  of  his  university  life  and 
parish  work,  and  wrote  of  the  deepening  and 
strengthening  of  his  conviction  that  the  old 
church's  dogmas  were  wisest  and  best  suited  to 
the  needs  of  men. 

"Instead  of  any  painful  upheaval  of  doubt 
and  skepticism,  Jean,  my  research  work  has  but 
made  me  the  more  convinced  that  the  staunch  old 
church  doctrines  are  the  safest  for  all.  They 
made  rugged  Christians  of  our  fathers,  men  un 
afraid  of  obstacle  or  tribulation,  in  awe  only  of 
the  just  wrath  of  God." 

Jean's  eyes  glowed  as  she  read,  and  she  ex 
ulted  in  the  steadfast  faith  of  her  lover. 

At  the  end  of  the  first  year  she  was  conscious 
of  no  change  in  herself.  Her  attitude  toward 
her  girlish  ideals  was  unaltered,  her  faith  in  her 
child's  faith  unswerving.  She  began  her  last 
year's  work  buoyantly,  eager  to  snatch  all  the 

221 


Tillicum  Tales 

priceless  boons  of  wisdom,  "for  the  garnering, 
by  and  by,"  she  said  happily  to  herself. 

In  the  winter  term  she  began  more  extensive 
studies  in  philosophy  and  psychology.  With  her 
habitual  thoroughness  she  spent  many  hours  in 
collateral  reading  and  research.  The  study  soon 
grew  fascinating  for  its  own  sake. 

Encouraged  and  stimulated  by  the  head  of  the 
department  she  studied  with  him  the  philosophies 
of  the  ancient  peoples,  the  development  of  their 
symbols  and  languages,  their  beliefs  and  tradi 
tions.  With  her  unusually  mature  judgment 
she  balanced  and  weighed  conclusions,  selected 
and  rejected.  Tracing  to  their  sources  many  of 
the  simple  unquestioned  traditions  of  her  child 
hood,  she  discovered  that  they  were  not  barri 
caded  by  the  walls  of  authenticity,  and  divine 
origin,  but  rather  built  on  the  uncertain  sands  of 
folklore  or  mythology. 

Although  hurt  and  baffled  and  blinded  by  the 
new  light  she  was  too  honest  to  discard  without 
reflection.  In  her  trouble  she  wrote  to  Donald 
in  simple  candor,  of  what  she  found  in  her  study, 
and  asked  for  help,  confident  that  he  would  point 
out  the  true  values,  and  give  her  back  her  old 
faith. 

"I  have  become  confused  by  voluminous  read 
ing,"  she  comforted  herself,  "confused  and  un 
able  to  reason  and  adjust.  Donald  will  straight 
en  it  all  out  as  if  by  magic.  He  is  too  fair  not 
to  be  honest,  but  wise  enough  to  lift  me  from  this 
miserable  chaos  into  stronger,  saner  faith." 

222 


Ye  Tithe  Mint  and  Rue 

Donald's  answer  came  promptly.  "My  dear 
est  Jean,  your  letter  grieved  me  inexpressibly. 
I  never  associated  religious  unrest  with  my  sta 
ble  Jean.  To  have  you  confess  that  doubts  from 
you  have  assailed  our  impregnable  tenets, 
shocked  me  terribly.  Your  reading,  dear  girl, 
has  been  indiscriminate  and  dangerous. 

"Can  prehistoric  myths  assail  the  word  of 
God  given  through  his  chosen  people,  the  He 
brews?  Can  our  belief  in  miracles  crumble  when 
their  story  is  recorded  by  the  men  who  walked 
and  talked  with  the  One  who  performed  them? 
Are  we  wiser  than  our  fathers?  Are  we  pre 
sumptuous  enough  to  think  that  we  dare  discard 
those  beliefs  which  were  the  bulwarks  of  their 
faith?  Put  away  these  ungodly  doubts,  Jean, 
I  implore,  and  be  my  own  sensible,  loyal  girl.  A 
clergyman's  wife  must  never  waver  in  her  allegi 
ance  to  the  teachings  of  the  church." 

In  like  vein  the  letter  ran.  Jean  read  on  to 
the  end,  searching  for  the  something  for  which 
her  heart  ached,  but  did  not  find.  She  put  it 
down  at  last,  miserably  conscious  that  somehow 
Donald  had  failed  her. 

"He  does  not  answer  me.  He  does  not  tell  me 
why  I  must  believe,  he  only  chides  and  admon 
ishes.  O  Donald,  love,  I  thought  you  of  all  the 
world  could  help." 

With  harassing  insistence  ran  in  her  mind 
this  extract  from  his  letter:  "A  clergyman's 
wife  must  never  waver  in  her  allegiance  to  the 
teachings  of  the  church." 

223 


Tillicum  Tales 

For  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  asked  herself 
what  were  the  teachings  of  her  church,  and  to 
Jean  the  question  was  inevitably  the  beginning 
of  conscientious  investigation.  She  went  to  the 
college  library,  and  searched  for  references  on 
church  doctrine.  She  read  closely,  and  long; 
then  put  aside  the  book,  to  think  but  longer. 

In  a  few  days  she  sent  another  appeal  to  the 
man  she  loved.  "O,  Donald,  help  me.  I  am 
bruised  and  sore,  and  all  astray.  Don't  reproach 
me,  but  explain  to  me  as  you  would  to  a  little 
child,  slowly  and  patiently,  but,  oh,  explain ! 

"Do  you  believe  in  damnation  for  all  men 
alike?  Do  you  believe  that  a  man  is  never  to 
have  a  chance  anywhere  who  never  has  had  a 
chance  here?  Do  you  believe  that  everyone, 
everyone,  Donald,  must  be  converted  and  sancti 
fied  in  the  regular  channels,  to  be  saved?  Do 
you  believe  that  all  the  good  are  to  go  to  Heaven, 
and  all  the  bad  to  Hell?  And  who  are  all  the 
good,  and  who  are  all  the  bad,  Donald?  I  have 
never  been  converted,  dear,  I  know  it  now.  I 
have  always  tried  to  be  good,  but  I  can't  remem 
ber  the  time  when  I  was  "born  again."  Do  you 
wish  me  to  believe  these  things,  beloved?  Must 
I  believe  these  things  to  be  your  wife?  Do  you 
believe  them,  yourself?  Don't  evade  me,  but  tell 
me  the  truth." 

Jean  gave  herself  no  time  to  think  or  brood 
until  the  next  letter  came.  She  was  dully  con 
scious  that  if  that  failed,  she  would  not  reveal 
herself  again,  that  although  they  might  not  think 
alike  in  this,  yet  their  love  should  not  be  em- 

224 


Ye  Tithe  Mint  and  Rwe 

bittered  by  caustic  argument  or  reproaches.  In 
all  things  vital,  she  told  herself,  they  would  al 
ways  be  together,  their  love  was  too  deep  for  bit 
terness  or  condemnation. 

"Do  I  believe  in  regeneration,  and  redemp 
tion,  in  sanctification,  and  ultimate  reward  or 
punishment?"  Donald  asked :  "All  these  are  to 
me  impregnable  foundation  stones.  I  shall  be 
lieve  in  them,  and  preach  them  with  all  my 
heart's  strength,  and  Jean,  you  must  believe 
them,  too.  You  must  let  me  teach  you  the  old 
way  of  salvation. 

"I  could  never  be  true  to  myself,  or  my  people, 
or  to  you,  if  I  took  you  for  my  wife  when  you 
were  in  heart  an  alien,  when  we  could  not  work 
together  with  one  purpose,  one  passion — the  sal 
vation  of  lost  souls.  Let  me  come  to  you,  Jean, 
and  plead  with  you,  before  it  is  too  late,  and 
your  heart  is  hardened." 

Much  more  he  wrote,  but  the  same  inflexible 
ultimatum  was  dominant  from  first  until  the  very 
last.  She  must  believe  as  he  believed,  else  she 
could  not  be  his  wife.  He  would  give  her  time, 
he  would  come  to  her  himself,  but  still  she  knew 
that  if  she  did  not  yield,  he  would  break  their 
betrothal,  upheld  by  the  conviction  that  he  was 
doing  a  holy  thing. 

SI  10  put  her  head  down  on  the  open  pages, 
too  stunned  and  hopeless  to  cry.  She  felt  she 
could  not  bear  the  inevitable  painful  conflict,  if 
he  came.  He  loved  her  as  he  could  never  love 
another  woman,  that  she  knew,  but  she  was  sure, 
too,  that  he  would  tear  her  from  his  heart  if  she 

225 


Tillicum  Tales 

came  between  him  and  his  faith.  And  because 
she  knew  that  he  was  suffering  as  sorely  as  her 
self,  she  humbled  herself  to  him. 

"Never  mind  if  I  can't  believe  all  that  I  once 
did,  Donald  dearest,  I  believe  in  all  the  big,  vital 
truths,  the  love  of  God,  the  purity  and  match 
less  teachings  of  Jesus  Christ,  and  the  need  of 
all  men  for  redemption,  whether  it  be  by  your 
way,  or  by  my  way.  I  can  work  with  you,  and 
love  our  people  with  you.  Don't  send  me  from 
you,  Donald.  Say  that  I  may  come  to  you  when 
the  year  is  over.  Don't  break  both  our  hearts, 
dear.  No,  don't  come  to  me,  I  could  not  bear  it, 
but  say  that  I  may  come  to  you." 

She  felt  that  his  reply  could  bring  no  deeper 
misery,  yet  when  it  was  due,  and  did  not  come, 
she  could  scarcely  bear  the  suspense.  The  letter 
was  a  week  late.  For  a  week  had  the  man 
wrestled  with  himself. 

"I  have  put  off,  from  hour  to  hour,  from  day 
to  day,  the  supreme  agony.  I  have  opened  the 
Book  day  and  night  for  guidance.  I  have  cried 
out  in  my  misery  that  it  could  not  be  for  me — 
this  trial.  There  never  was  so  beautiful  a  wom 
an  as  you  Jean,  nor  so  bonny,  nor  so  good. 

"  'If  thine  eye  causeth  thee  to  stumble,  pluck 
it  out  and  cast  it  from  thee;  it  is  good  for  thee 
to  enter  into  life  with  one  eye,  rather  than  hav 
ing  two  eyes  to  be  cast  into  the  hell  of  fire.' 

"I  would  not  wince  at  the  hell  of  fire,  Jean. 
It  is  much  more  than  that.  I  have  consecrated 
my  life  to  the  service  of  my  Lord.  I  have  become 
sanctified  by  laying  myself  on  the  altar  a  volun- 

226 


Ye  Tithe  Mint  and  Rue 

tary  sacrifice.  Dare  I,  dare  I,  Jean,  violate  my 
holy  vows  by  taking  to  my  heart  a  woman  outside 
of  salvation,  even  one  who  does  not  doom  my  sal 
vation  as  necessary  to  peace  with  God?  O,  my 
beloved,  my  beloved." 

Dry-eyed  Jean  read,  and  read  again,  as  if 
she  would  not  miss  one  word,  or  perchance  that 
she  might  find  one  new  word  somewhere  which 
would  erase  all  the  others  from  her  heart. 

The  letter  came  in  the  Sunday  morning  mail. 
Late  in  the  afternoon  Jean  wralked  over  to  the 
home  of  Dr.  Malcolm,  who  had  been  a  dear  friend 
of  her  mother's.  She  felt  that  she  could  talk 
to  him  as  she  could  not  bear  to  talk  to  any  other. 

His  old  housekeeper,  Martha,  showed  her  in, 
and  took  her  to  the  library  where  the  clergyman 
sat  before  the  fire,  in  relaxed  and  tranquil  Sab 
bath  mood. 

Jean  hastened  to  apologize,  "Forgive  me  for 
intruding,  today,  Dr.  Malcolm,  but  I  was  selfish 
enough  to  come.  You  are  wise  and  good,  and 
loving.  You  will  be  kind,  but  you  will  tell  me 
where  I  am  wrong,  I  know." 

"Sit  down,  my  child,  and  tell  me  all  about 
it." 

Dr.  Malcolm's  voice  was  mellow  and  low,  with 
a  cadence  of  rich  brotherly  sympathy.  "Rest  a 
bit  and  then  we'll  talk.  I  am  glad  that  you 
thought  me  worthy." 

He  put  Jean  into  his  own  spacious  chair,  as 
he  spoke,  giving  no  sign  that  he  noticed  how 
worn  she  looked. 

227 


Tillicum  Tales 

Soon  she  began  to  talk.  She  did  not  spare 
herself.  She  told  of  her  reading,  her  subsequent 
unrest  of  mind,  her  final  conclusions,  and  her 
confession  to  her  lover,  and  his  decision. 

"I  am  not  quite  a  heretic,  Dr.  Malcolm,  I 
truly  am  not.  I  am  not  defending  myself  to 
you  against  Donald's  decision.  He  must  be  true 
to  himself  and  the  church  he  serves.  I  know  I 
am  paining  you  by  my  confession,  but  I  am  hon 
est,  and  so  willing  to  be  persuaded/7  she  finished 
appealingly. 

Dr.  Malcolm's  keen  gray  eyes  watched  Jean's 
face  as  she  talked.  They  were  sometimes  stern, 
and  sometimes  soft,  but  understanding,  always. 

After  a  silence,  he  began  to  speak,  and  Jean 
listened  eagerly.  He  did  not  attempt  to  refute 
her  arguments  directly.  He  only  explained  the 
origin  and  growth  and  virtues  of  the  church's 
doctrines.  Then  clearly  and  patiently,  he 
pointed  out  the  dangers  arising  from  indiscrimi 
nate  reading  by  untutored  minds;  their  hasty, 
irrational  conclusions,  which  often  corroded  their 
morals;  and  the  instability  of  action  resulting 
from  these  erroneous  judgments. 

"I  would  not  attempt  to  dissuade  you,  Jean, 
or  force  you  to  believe  as  I  believe  in  all  respects. 
You  are  an  intelligent  woman  and  should  be  left 
perfectly  free  to  think  as  you  must.  Your  mor 
als  are  safe,  and  your  faith  in  your  Creator  sure. 
You  would  never  wreck  the  usefulness  of  your 
husband's  life.  You  would  be  a  tower  of  strength 
and  sweetness  always.  Does  he  say,  in  his  arro- 

228 


Ye  Tithe  Mint  and  Rue 

gant  self-assurance  that  he  will  not  marry  you 
if  you  do  not  recant?" 

Dr.  Malcolm  had  arisen,  and  was  pacing  up 
and  down,  sorely  grieved  for  Jean's  distress,  and 
in  hot  wrath  against  the  man  who  was  casting 
her  from  him. 

"Don't  blame  Donald,  Dr.  Malcolm,"  Jane 
begged.  "He  is  only  doing  what  he  thinks  is 
right.  Could  you  as  a  clergyman  of  an  ortho 
dox  church  marry  me,  thinking  as  I  do?  Could 
you  marry  me?"  Jean  asked  earnestly. 

Dr.  Malcolm  stopped  abruptly  at  the  ques 
tion,  and  looked  at  Jean.  Could  he  marry  her, 
would  he  marry  her — this  girl  with  the  beautiful 
mouth,  and  beautiful  woman's  soul  looking  from 
the  hazel  eyes,  this  girl  whose  mouth  drooped 
now  so  sorrowingly,  and  whose  eyes  were  tired 
and  sad ;  would  he  marry  her?  He  almost  lost 
his  staid,  elderly  balance  at  the  question.  Oh 
to  be  young  again,  and  to  have  the  right  to  win 
this  woman,  and  to  hold  her,  against  the  world! 

He  renewed  his  walk,  and  answered  gravely, 
although  his  heart  was  still  pounding  against  his 
clerical  waistcoat. 

"Yes,  Jean,  I  think  I  could  marry  you,  and 
do  no  violence  to  my  duty,  my  church,  or  my 
God.  Youth  is  cruelly  harsh  in  her  judgments. 
The  shading  of  the  blacks  and  whites  into  the 
kinder,  softer  grays,  only  comes  with  years,  and 
bruised  hearts.  Poor  child,  poor  child,  I  wish 
I  could  help  you." 

When  Jean  had  gone,  and  he  sat  alone,  his 
heart  was  very  heavy,  because  he  could  not  bear 

229 


Tillicum  Tales 

the  burden  for  her.  He  looked  where  she  had 
sat,  and  sighed  wistfully. 

He  could  hear  Martha's  heavy  footsteps  as 
she  came  and  went,  setting  his  evening  tea,  his 
lonely  evening  tea. 

"And  she  asked  me  if  I  could  marry  her,  I  an 
orthodox  clergyman!  I'd  marry  her  if  I  lost 
my  own  soul,  and  I  wouldn't  care  a  damn 
whether  she  believed  in  damnation  or  not,"  he 
finished  aggressively  and  quite  aloud,  but  only 
the  white  Angora  ball  on  the  hearthstone  rug 
heard  the  profanation,  and  she  was  no  mischief- 
maker. 

Jean  went  home  and  wrote  her  last  letter,  and 
because  she  knew  that  it  was  her  last — that  after 
it  was  sent  she  would  send  no  more — her  heart 
ache  seemed  more  poignant. 

Commencement  was  but  a  few  months  away. 
The  pressure  of  work  proved  a  blessing  to  Jean. 
She  spared  herself  nothing,  finding  actual  relief 
in  weariness.  She  had  quite  decided  what  she 
would  do,  when  it  was  all  over.  In  the  autumn 
Donald  would  be  ordained,  and  would  assume  the 
parish  charge  in  their  home  village.  To  return 
there  would  be  to  embarrass  his  work,  and  wound 
them  both  afresh.  She  had  been  offered  an  as- 
sistantship  in  the  history  department  of  her  Alma 
Mater  and  had  accepted  it.  The  summer  months 
she  would  spend  with  her  mother's  kinsfolk, 
as  she  had  promised. 

When  she  went  to  say  goodbye  to  Dr.  Mal 
colm  he  chided  her  gently :  "You  look  very  tired, 
my  child.  Your  eyes  are  too  big,  and  your  cheeks 

230 


Ye  Tithe  Mint  and  Rue 

too  white.  You  must  do  nothing  but  rest  this 
summer —  and  hang  that  ecclesiastical  saint,"  he 
said  to  himself. 

A  letter  came  from  Margaret  McDonald  the 
day  Jean  went  away.  The  tears  which  she  had 
been  keeping  back  for  months  flowed  in  unre 
strained  abandon. 

"You're  not  coming  back  to  us,  dearie? 
You're  not  coming  home?  Margaret's  old  heart 
is  sore  over  what  you  have  told  her.  Yes,  I'll 
keep  your  secret,  child.  I'll  tell  no  one  why  you 
are  not  to  be  Donald  McGregor's  wife,  but  for 
myself  I  canna  sit  under  his  preaching  again.  I 
canna  pretend  to  receive  the  message  from  his 
lips.  You  say  that  he  is  only  doing  what  he 
thinks  is  right;  and  when,  Jean  bairn,  did  the 
good  Lord  give  him  the  right  to  judge  men's 
souls?  He  has  only  to  do  with  the  message. 
May  the  Lord  forgive  me,  but  my  heart  is  bitter 
and  sore,  and  I  canna  help  it  My  poor  bairn, 
my  poor  bairn!" 

Jean  had  letters  from  Margaret  during  the 
fall  and  winter  which  followed.  She  heard  of 
Donald's  unremitting  devotion  to  his  charge,  that 
he  spared  himself  neither  day  or  night,  that  no 
sacrifice  seemed  too  hard  for  him  to  make,  no 
service  too  irksome. 

Late  in  the  spring  of  that  year  he  succumbed 
to  an  attack  of  typhoid  fever,  which  left  him  an 
invalid  for  months.  When  he  was  able  to  take 
up  his  work  again,  Margaret  wrote  that  he  had 
resigned  his  pastorate  to  his  substitute,  and  had 
gone  to  the  city,  as  a  missionary  to  the  slums. 

231 


Tillicum  Tales 

Jean's  love  followed  him  everywhere.  She 
knew  that  he  was  struggling  still  to  worship  only 
duty,  and  not  yet  had  peace  come,  that  not  yet 
had  he  been  able  to  put  her  image  from  him. 

In  the  second  summer  after  she  was  gradu 
ated  she  went  home  on  a  visit  to  Margaret.  Old 
places  and  associations  hurt  her,  naturally,  but 
she  did  not  brood.  She  found  that  a  new  heri 
tage  of  peace  had  come  to  her  out  of  the  way  of 
rebellion  and  pain. 

One  evening  toward  the  close  of  her  visit, 
Jean  left  the  cottage  after  tea,  for  a  walk  alone. 
Margaret  was  sitting  without  the  house  reading. 
Feeling,  rather  than  seeing  some  one  near  her, 
she  looked  up  from  her  meditation  of  John's  Gos 
pel  to  find  Donald  McGregor  standing  by  her 
side. 

"Where  is  Jean,  Margaret?"  he  asked. 
"Please  tell  me  where  I  may  find  Jean,"  as 
though  it  were  not  strange  to  ask  for  Jean. 

Margaret's  stern  eyes  searched  his  face.  The 
lines  she  saw  there  softened  her  heart,  but  she 
gave  no  sign. 

"And  what  do  you  want  of  Jean,  Donald  Mc 
Gregor?  What  right  have  you  to  ask  for  Jean? 
You're  naught  but  a  stranger  to  her.  Your  ways 
are  parted  now." 

"I  know,"  the  man  said  humbly,  his  voice  keen 
with  pain.  "I  was  the  one  to  part  Jean's  way 
and  mine.  In  my  colossal  blindness  I  put  her 
from  me  because  she  could  not  believe  in  all  my 

232 


Ye  Tithe  Mint  and  Rue 

narrow,  stubborn  faith.  I  crucified  her  for  a 
dead  creed.  My  eyes  have  been  opened  for  a  long 
time.  I  have  lived  with  men  and  women,  Mar 
garet,  and  learned  to  know  their  hearts.  My  ar 
rogant  pride  has  been  humbled  by  coming  close  to 
the  real  issues  of  life.  Through  these  months  of 
work  among  my  people,  I  have  come  to  realize 
the  loveliness  of  the  treasure  I  crushed  in  my 
conceit.  The  beauty,  Margaret,  the  beauty  of  the 
vision  has  been  with  me  always,  but  I  have  not 
dared  to  come  to  her — my  transgression  has  been 
too  great  for  any  human  forgiveness. 

"When  I  heard  that  she  was  here,  I  came  with 
out  volition  of  my  own.  I  came  to  ask  her  for 
giveness — and  then  I  shall  go  back.  O,  Mar 
garet,  I  have  suffered  too — I  count  that  nothing 
—but  I  shall  want  her  all  my  life,  and  be  bereft." 

Margaret  turned  her  head  away.  She  could 
not  look  upon  his  face — and  her  own  eyes  were 
full  of  tears,  but  she  could  not  forgive  him  yet. 

"You  little  deserve  that  she  should  forgive 
you,  man,  you  little  deserve  it,  but  a  woman's 
heart — a  woman's  heart — .  The  lassie  is  at  the 
gate  now;  go  bring  her  in." 

Jean  showed  no  surprise  as  Donald  came  to 
meet  her  in  the  twilight,  she  only  searched  his 
face. 

He  did  not  touch  her,  he  stood  a  little  apart. 
Once  he  stretched  out  his  arms,  then  let  them 
fall.  There  was  no  need  for  speech.  All  that 
he  had  told  Margaret,  Jean  saw  on  the  brow,  in 

233 


Tillicum  Tales 

the  softened  eyes,  and  around  the  tired,  grave 
mouth,  and  after  she  had  looked  and  looked,  and 
was  satisfied,  her  face  was  lighted  with  a  smile 
so  deep,  so  tender,  and  so  glad,  that  once  again, 
as  though  he  knew  it  not,  Donald  opened  his  arms 
— and  Jean  came  into  them,  and  rested  there. 


234 


On  the  Edge  of  Death 
Valley 


BY 
A.  M.  WALDEN 


S£f 


"I  beheld  Old  Charlie." 


On  the  Edge  of 
Death  Valley 


HILE  I  was  a  reporter  for  a  San 
Francisco  paper  a  few  years  ago,  I 
had  occasion  to  make  a  trip  to  the 
edge  of  Death  Valley  to  look  at  a  mine.  It  was 
my  intention  also  to  write  up  the  trip. 

From  San  Francisco  we  went  by  rail  to  Ca- 
liente,  thence  by  stage  up  Kern  River  Valley  to 
Walker's  Pass  through  which  we  crossed  the  Si 
erra  Nevada  Mountains.  As  we  climbed  the 
western  slope  of  the  range  through  live-oak  and 
pine  woods,  imagine  my  surprise  when  on  de 
scending  the  eastern  side  we  were  precipitated, 
as  it  were,  into  a  forest  of  yucca  and  cactus. 
Fifteen  miles  below  we  came  to  a  lone  cabin  oc 
cupying  a  space  within  certain  degrees  of  lati 
tude  and  longtitude  called  Coyote  Holes — un 
musical,  it  is  true,  but  a  characteristically  west 
ern  name  derived  from  the  numerous  holes  dug 
in  its  vicinity  by  the  coyotes  in  search  of  water. 

Here  we  got  out  and  stretched  our  legs  and 
had  another  smoke,  of  course.  Old  Charlie  and 
Woodard,  who  had  been  pulling  at  their  pipes 
constantly,  refilled  them  with  gusto,  remarking 

237 


Tillicum  Tales 

for  the  hundrdth  time  that  "a  smoke  was  pretty 
near  the  best  thing  on  God's  earth." 

We  were  now  at  the  eastern  edge  of  Mojave 
desert  at  the  base  of  the  Sierras.  We  drove 
along  the  foothills  to  Indian  Wells,  where  we 
struck  due  east  across  the  desert.  It  was  so  hot 
that  we  began  sleeping  during  the  day  and  trav 
eling  by  night.  Finally  after  a  long  dusty  drive 
through  sand  and  gravel  and  a  vegetation  of 
cactus  and  greasewood,  we  stopped  at  the  well 
which  Old  Charlie  had  dug.  After  resting  we 
made  the  last  drive  across  the  sandy  expanse  to 
the  Argus  range.  As  we  neared  the  canyon  the 
sight  of  a  stone  cabin  was  mighty  restful  to  the 
eyes. 

"Yes;  that's  my  cabin,"  said  Charlie. 
"  'Twouldn't  pass  a  Masonic  test,  but  it's  com 
fortable  all  right.  Just  built  it  out  of  the  rough 
rock  I  found  around  here.  Come  in,  gentlemen, 
and  have  a  drink." 

At  that  each  man  of  us  felt  like  falling 
through  that  cabin  door,  but  Woodard  said  to  go 
slow;  that  having  come  from  the  West  into  the 
effete  East  we  should  not  be  as  unconventional 
as  was  our  wont.  While  we  tried  to  slow  up 
from  our  sudden  start  before  Woodard  put  a 
damper  on  our  spirits,  we  heard  the  most  out 
landish  swearing  inside  that  modest  abode  that 
I  ever  heard  before  in  my  life  and  I've  lived 
West  some  too. 

"Smells  real  smoky,  don't  it?"  said  Wood 
ard,  slapping  his  leg.  "Listen,  boys.  By  thun 
der,  that's  real  artistic,  ain't  it?  That  ain't  none 

238 


On  the  Edge  of  Death  Valley 

of  your  plain  low-down  cussin' ;  it's  poetic,  I  tell 
you.  "Just  listen."  The  oaths  swarmed,  puffed 
and  streamed  out  to  beat  the  band.  They  made 
the  atmosphere  shimmer  like  the  sun  does  on  a, 
hot  day.  They  even  scorched  the  grass;  and  as 
Woodard  said :  "It  smelled  smoky." 

"That  would  do  for  Wagner's  opera,"  contin 
ued  Woodard  delightedly,  for  he  had  traveled 
some  and  seen  some  notwithstanding  his  careless 
sling  of  the  English  language.  Indeed,  if  the 
notes  of  that  deep  voice  inside  might  have  been 
caught,  minus  the  profanity  they  were  fairly 
weighted  writh — the  anger,  the  scorn,  the  derision, 
the  disgust — well,  people  wouldn't  have  to  hear  it 
twice  to  know  what  it  meant,  that's  all. 

We  soon  found  what  was  the  matter.  Some 
traveler — for  the  latchstring  always  hung  on  the 
outside — had  been  in.  "Stayed  two  weeks,"  said 
Charlie,  examining  the  larder,  "and  then,  by 
thunder,  didn't  wash  the  dishes,  get  a  supply  of 
wood  nor  clean  up.  I  meant  they  should  have 
the  grub — that's  what  it  is  here  for — but  the  idea 
of  their  not  cleaning  up  their  trash  after  'em." 
Old  Charlie  muttered  considerably.  A  good 
drink  of  whiskey,  however,  soon  put  him  in  a  bet 
ter  humor. 

"A  drink  apiece,  that's  the  old  man's  limit,'' 
said  Woodard  after  we  had  filed  out  of  the  door 
to  look  about  us  again. 

"Holy  Mother!  I  wisht-to-morrow-hurry," 
murmured  the  Mexican  helper  so  disconsolately 
that  it  set  us  all  to  laughing;  but  let  me  tell  you 

239 


Tillicum  Tales 

there  was  more  than  one  made  the  wish  "Mex" 
did. 

"That's  a  mighty  good  oP  cuss,"  said  Wood- 
ard,  jerking  his  thumb  toward  the  cabin  where 
Charlie  was  preparing  a  meal.  It  was  evident 
these  two  old  fellows  loved  each  other.  Long 
association,  together  with  the  loneliness  of  camp 
life,  had  bound  them  together  as  nothing  else 
could  have  done. 

"A  queer  cuss,  too,"  ruminated  Woodard. 
"Know  what  he  does?  Well,  he  gets  down  off 
the  wagon  during  our  trips  and  plants  the  seeds 
of  the  fruit  he  eats.  Says  maybe  somebody  will 
be  glad  of  it  some  day."  He  thoughfully  knocked 
the  ashes  from  his  pipe  and  remained  silent  un 
til  I  asked  a  question.  "No ;  he  ain't  got  no  reg 
ular  way  of  makin'  a  livin',  except  occasional 
teamin'.  Just  goes  around  helpin'  those  who 
need  him.  Never  asks  for  no  money.  Nobody' d 
think  of  offerin'  him  any  for  fear  of  startin'  that 
profanity-machine  of  his'n.  Goes  around  nursin' 
the  sick  and  helpin'  to  build  the  settlers'  houses. 
Don't  need  much  to  live  on  in  this  country.  The 
streams  hold  your  fish,  the  woods  your  game." 
I  thought  I  saw  him  wink  at  the  boys  but  I  was 
not  sure.  "Old  Charlie  is  pretty  nigh  seventy, 
but  he's  young  yet.  Close  to  that  figger  my 
self." 

I  could  not  restrain  my  look  of  amazement. 
He  was  rugged  and  weather-beaten,  to  be  sure; 
beseamed  with  many  wrinkles,  but  they  appeared 
to  be  those  of  hardship  rather  than  age,  for  he 
was  wiry  and  strong  and  looked  no  more  than 

240 


On  the  Edge  of  Death  Valley 

fifty.  And  there  was  Old  Charlie  in  the  cabin 
hopping  around  in  his  leather  apron  (so  slick 
he  might  have  greased  the  skillet  with  it)  as  agile 
as  a  sparrow. 

I  pulled  out  my  note-book.  Ever  since  I  had 
first  seen  Old  Charlie  and  Woodard,  who  met  us 
at  Kern  River  to  take  us  by  team  the  rest  of  the 
one  hundred  and  fifty  miles,  my  curiosity  had 
been  aroused  concerning  these  two  men.  As  I 
looked  at  them  in  their  rough  clothes  and  high- 
laced  boots,  with  their  slouched  hats  pulled  over 
their  eyes,  my  inclination  to  pull  out  my  note 
book  and  ask :  "Legitimate  or  illegitimate ;  mar 
ried  or  single;  name  back  East;  father  hung  or 
died  a  natural  death?"  had  been  hard  to  restrain. 
I  realized,  though,  by  the  appearance  of  their 
frank,  yet.  inscrutable  faces  that  this  would  not 
go  with  these  men.  I  might  ask  those  imperti 
nent  questions  in  the  city,  but  here — no  siree. 
Seeing  my  book  Woodard  grew  suspicious. 

"Prof.  ?"  he  inquired  screwing  up  his  eyes. 

"Nope." 

"Glad  you're  not.  Had  one  of  them  things 
traveling  with  us  once  and  he  didn't  know  how 
to  lead  a  cayuse  along  a  trail."  Woodard's  lips 
were  pursed  contemptuously.  "Told  Old  Charlie 
then  that  these  professors  didn't  know  every 
thing.  What  you  got  that  dinky  little  red  book 
for?" 

"Well,  Woodard,  to  tell  you  the  truth,"  I 
said,  "you  know  when  one  goes  home,  folks  ex 
pect  him  to  take  back  some  information.  Now 
I  am  going  to  tell  a  lot  of  lies  about  mountain 

241 


Tillicum  Tales 

lions,  of  course,  but  I  thought  I  would  like  to  put 
just  a  drop  of  truth  in — about  what  a  wonderful 
old  man  Charlie  is,  for  instance.  I  wanted  to 
get  the  age  correct." 

"You  bet  he  is  wonderful,"  returned  Wood- 
ard,  his  eyes  lighting  up.  "You  know  what  he 
done?  Went  clean  over  that  Death  Valley." 
One  scrubby  finger  indicated  the  direction  of  the 
valley  of  many  songs  and  stories.  "Found  a 
whole  village  of  ragged  outlaws  over  on  t'other 
side  of  the  clump  called  Funeral  Mountains. 
This  is  between  you  and  me.  Dug  a  well  in  the 
desert.  Never  expected  to  go  that  way  again 
himself,  but  said  some  day  a  tenderfoot  who 
didn't  know  enough  to  take  water  with  him 
might  get  thirsty.  Them  outlaws  treated  him 
like  a  king.  Of  course  he  had  along  a  lot  of  old 
magazines  that  he  got  at  the  end  of  the  railroad, 
for  Old  Charlie  always  goes  prepared;  thought 
ful  as  a  woman.  Says  he  never  expected  to  find 
humans  over  there,  but  took  along  something 
anyway.  Says  he  is  never  surprised  at  anything. 
Says  when  he  goes  to  hell  he's  goin'  to  take  some 
fire.  Mought  be  all  fake  stories  about  fire  down 
there  and  it  mought  be  as  cold  as  Christmas — 
so  he's  goin'  to  take  some  matches."  Woodard 
chuckled  delightedly.  "Say,"  he  continued,  "you 
remember  when  we  met  you  at  Kern  Kiver? 
Well,  if  all  the  kids  followed  our  team  for  a  long 
way  towards  the  mountains,  you'd  oughter  seen 
them  when  we  came  in.  Why  all  of  'em,  Mexican 
half-breeds,  Indians,  every  kid  of  'em  secretly 
loves  Old  Charlie.  He  could  hardly  shake  'em 

242 


On  the  Edge  of  Death  "Fa //<•// 

off.  Yes;  come  from  old  Kentucky  when  four 
teen;  ran  away.  That's  all  I  know.  He's  so 
close-mouthed  he  won't  tell  even  me."  Woodard 
looked  unhappy  but  presently  went  on:  "Every 
man  who  asks  about  his  past  gets  a  different 
story.  To  one  he  tells  he's  an  outlaw ;  to  another 
that  he's  a  widower — murdered  his  wife  and  ran 
away  to  keep  from  hangin',  though  I  know  for 
sure  that  ain't  so;  to  another  that  he  shot  a  man 
— desribes  it  hair-raisingly  too.  At  first  they 
was  all  mad,  but  by  and  by  when  one  of  'em 
caught  him  bustin'  with  laughter,  he  realized  it 
was  one  of  Charlie's  jokes.  He  hates  curiosity; 
never  asks  nobody  nothin'  and  expects  the  same 
in  return.  Would  take  any  kind  of  a  cuss  in 
and  feed  him  and  let  him  stay  as  long  as  he 
wanted." 

Looking  through  the  doorway  we  saw  our  host 
and  the  Mexican  helper  quickly  clearing  the 
cabin.  The  dirt  floor  was  swept  and  the  table 
was  wiped  off  with  water  heated  in  the  big  fire 
place.  As  the  odor  of  bacon  came  to  us  on  the 
breeze  a  strong  voice  thundered  "Dinner !" 

I  look  back  in  my  past  and  forward  in  my 
future  and  soo  that  it  was  the  best  dinner  I  ever 
did  or  ever  will  taste.  We  seated  ourselves  at 
the  cloan  olothloss  table  and  drank  our  tin  cups 
of  coffee  and  ato  our  biscuits  and  bacon.  The 
men  filed  out,  but  out  of  curiosity  I  lingered, 
taking  in  all  the  cabin  arrangements. 

Fooling  a  pull  at  my  sloovo,  I  beheld  Old 
Charlio.  He  gave  mo  a  vory  astute  wink  and 
laying  a  knotty  finger  on  his  lips,  whispered: 

243 


TilUcum  Tales 

"Follow  me."  In  my  imagination  I  had  begun 
to  call  the  figure  that  stood  in  the  doorway  the 
"Mighty  Man  of  the  Mountains."  What  wonder 
then  that  I,  a  tenderfoot,  meekly  followed  my 
hero?  He  appeared  to  encompass  everything 
with  his  eagle  eyes,  to  pause,  weigh  quickly,  cal 
culate  ;  then  beckoning  me,  he  led  the  way  around 
the  cabin  where  we  sat  down  behind  a  huge  rock. 

"Think  anyone  saw  us  coming?" 

As  he  leaned  toward  me  I  was  appalled  by 
the  wickedness  of  his  eyes. 

"N-n-no,"  I  stammered.  "I  am  sure  no  one 
saw  us." 

"So  much  the  better."  He  took  me  roughly 
by  the  shoulder  and  gazed  deeply  into  my  eyes 
as  if  he  would  see  my  very  soul. 

"Well,"  he  said  after  his  scrutiny,  "you  may 
be  a  tenderfoot,  but  I  believe  you  are  a  brave  one 
all  right."  I  don't  suppose  I  entirely  hid  my 
satisfaction  at  this  remark,  for  I  noticed  an 
amused  glint  in  the  dark  gray  eyes  opposite. 

"Well,  now,  listen,  son.  The  distance  be 
tween  you  and  my  gun  ain't  very  fur,  is  it?  And 
even  if  it  was,  I  am  a  mighty  good  shot.  I  kin 
knock  the  tip  off  that  pine  tree."  He  fingered 
his  pistol  lovingly  and  seemed  for  a  moment  lost 
in  memories  of  his  gun-prowess,  while  I,  not  hav 
ing  much  of  the  detective  instinct,  was  complete 
ly  in  the  dark.  By  and  by  I  saw  one  glimmer 
but  it  served  only  to  confuse  me  the  more. 

Did  Woodard  really  believe  all  he  said  about 
this  man  at  my  side,  or  was  it  a  cracked-up  job 
between  them,  I  pondered.  I'll  admit  my  mind 

244 


On  tlie  Edge  of  Death  Valley 

wasn't  very  steady  as  I  wildly  cast  about,  seeking 
the  threads  of  this  mystery  that  I  might  weave 
them  into  whole  cloth.  I'll  admit,  also,  that  I 
was  trembling  just  a  little. 

"I  wisht  I  had  a  Bible."  Old  Charlie's  voice 
startled  me. 

"W-w-why?"  I  gasped. 

"For  you  to  swear  on." 

"Why,  I  have  one."  I  was  immensely  re 
lieved  but  felt  very  silly  as  I  pulled  the  little 
Bible  from  my  pocket. 

"I  did  it  to  please  my  mother,"  I  remarked, 
handing  it  over. 

Charlie  took  it  gingerly. 

"Lay  your  hand  on  it,  son.  Now  say  after 
me :  'I  solemnly  swear  that  I  will  not  breathe  a 
word  of  what  Charlie  tells  me.  I  give  my  word 
as  a  man  of  honor." 

This  certainly  seemed  well-clinched.  I  sol 
emnly  swore. 

"I  am  a  man  of  honor  also.  I  give  you  my 
word  of  honor  that  I  won't  shoot  you  if  you  keep 
my  secret" 

"What  is  it?"  I  was  gaining  courage  for  he 
had  stopped  fingering  his  gun. 

"Well,  see  that  clump  of  willows  to  the  west 
ward?  I've  got  about  twenty  men  in  hiding 
there — more'n  two  to  one,  you  see,  son.  All  I 
have  to  do  is  to  give  the  signal.  All  the  men 
in  this  camp  have  got  some  coin  on  them  and 
they're  all  bad  men  but  you.  Know  why  I'm 
tellin'  you  all  this?  Feel  sorry  for  you,  son; 

245 


TiUwum  Tales 

and  when  you  hear  guns,  I  want  you  to  cut  for 
the  mountains." 

I  have  confessed  to  being  a  tenderfoot  and  I 
must  admit  that  my  knees  sought  each  other's 
society,  as  I  replied:  "Yes;  I'll  lay  low."  My 
reserved  thought  was:  "We  couldn't  do  any 
thing  with  so  many  against  us  so  there's  no  use 
trying  to  warn  the  others." 

"There's  not  going  to  be  any  killing?"  ques 
tioned  I. 

"Well,  no ;  not  if  I  kin  help  it."  Again  there 
came  the  amused  glint  in  his  eyes. 

After  a  long  twilight,  for  it  was  in  the  early 
part  of  July,  the  night  hovered  darkly  down. 
Needless  to  say  I  went  supperless  to  bunk  and 
lay  sleepless  for  many  weary  hours.  A  breeze 
whistled  through  the  alders  and  buzzed  through 
the  brush.  It  was  my  first  experience  at  night 
in  a  tent  in  wild  western  wastes.  The  howl  of 
the  coyotes  and  the  strange  night  noises — lulla- 
bys  for  the  other  fellows — kept  my  eyes  propped 
firmly  open.  Great  wings  seemed  to  brush 
against  the  frail  white  walls  and  I  felt  that  God 
was  pretty  far  away.  I  vowed  then  and  there  if 
I  had  a  whole  hide  after  this  escapade,  never  to 
buy  another  mine  from  a  smooth  talker  when  it 
would  mean  a  trip  across  the  mountains  to  look 
at  a  hole  in  the  ground. 

Old  Charlie  had  been  watching  me  furtively 
after  our  exciting  chat,  and  how  did  I  know  that 
he  did  not  lie  in  the  bunk  across  from  mine  with 
one  eye  open?  Was  Old  Charlie  asleep?  That 
snore  was  natural — Old  Charlie — those  men — 

246 


On  the  Edge  of  Death  Valley 

why  somehow  I  was  in  a  big  city — and  then  there 
were  girls  coming  along  a  wooded  path  and  carry 
ing  buckets  full  of  blackberries.  My  thoughts 
were  wandering.  As  I  tried  to  keep  from  drift 
ing  into  sleep  there  was  a  loud  report.  Yes;  of 
a  revolver!  More  and  more!  Those  must  be 
the  reserve  men  and  I  had  brought  no  pistol. 
Silly  fool,  to  believe  all  the  bad  men  of  the  West 
were  dead. 

I  jumped  from  my  bunk  with  the  wild  idea 
of  running  for  the  hills.  I  stared  about  in 
amazement  It  was  broad  daylight  and  all  the 
bunks  were  empty.  In  a  spasm  of  alarm  mingled 
with  curiosity  I  rushed  from  the  tent — only  to 
discover  Old  Charlie  with  a  peculiar  grin  on  his 
face  and  a  lighted  fire-cracker  in  his  hand.  All 
the  other  men  were  having  fits  of  laughter.  As 
the  manager  of  the  fireworks  pitched  a  lighted 
fuse  in  my  direction  he  drawled: 

"Why  son,  laying  abed  ain't  very  patriotic. 
Don't  you  know  this  is  the  glorious  Fourth,  the 
day  we  were  sot  free  from  Britain?" 


247 


The  Recoil  of 

Circumstance 

BY 
FLORENCE    MAUDE   FARRER 


"Under  one  umbrella  they  turned  the  corner  and  disappeared." 


The  Recoil  of 
Circumstance 


'T  is  inexpressibly  good  of  you  to  coine  and 
help  me  to  kill  time  while  I  am  shut  up 
in  these  rooms,  Katydid.  Do  come  in 
every  time  you  have  half  an  hour  to  give  me; 
but  for  the  love  of  the  saints,  don't  let  anyone 
get  an  inkling  of  my  hiding  place !  Nobody  must 
know  but  you  and  Jack.  I  can  trust  nobody 
else  not  to  give  me  away." 

She  surveyed  her  fine  figure  in  the  mirror,  in 
passing,  gave  her  splendid  hair  a  touch,  and 
beamed  her  welcome  on  the  petite  Kit  tie,  who, 
true  to  her  name,  was  making  herself  comfortable 
among  the  cushions  of  the  couch. 

"Yes,"  she  continued,  "Pm  a  prisoner  here, 
while  the  editor  of  The  Sunrise  is  on  trial  for 
criminal  libel.  You  know  I  am  wanted  for  a 
witness,  and  I  don't  dare  go  on  the  stand  with 
out  incriminating  myself.  They  have  spotters 
out  everywhere  looking  for  me,  and  I  can't  show 
my  red  head  out  of  doors  for  fear  some  bailiff 
will  put  a  hand  on  my  shoulder  and  read  a  bench 
warrant  to  me.  And  it  is  death  to  live  inside 
the  walls  of  this  little  flat — death  to  one  who  is 
in  love  with  the  outside  world,  as  I  am." 

251 


Tillicum  Tales 

"You  seem  to  be  comfortable  enough.  Can't 
you  entertain  yourself?  Read  something;  write 
something." 

"Never!  I  don't  read.  Don't  read  anything 
but  reference  books.  I  don't  take  my  impres 
sions  of  life  at  second  hand.  I  leave  that  to  the 
decadent  and  the  dilettante.  I  want  life  itself 
and  more  and  more  of  it.  I  want  experience ;  ac 
tion;  contact  with  the  world.  I  want  to  live 
through  events  and  take  part  in  them.  For  the 
same  reason  it  does  not  satisfy  me  to  sit  tamely 
at  the  theatre  and  watch  the  play  from  a  box; 
I  want  to  go  onto  the  boards  and  play  a  part  my 
self.  No,  I  won't  accept  life  at  second-hand, 
Katydid,  Katie  dear." 

"Then  why  don't  you  write  something?  You 
certainly  have  had  experience  enough  with  life 
to  write  about  it." 

"Yes,  I  can  write.  Wait  until  I  get  old  and 
I  will  write — write  memoirs.  But  I  must  live 
life  to  the  uttermost,  first;  and  just  now  I  am  too 
busy  at  the  game  itself  to  stop  to  explain  how  it 
is  played." 

"Since  writing  is  your  business,  yours  and 
mine,"  returned  the  Katydid,  "I  don't  know  why 
you  should  denounce  it  so  savagely.  It  is  the 
bridge  that  carries  us  over." 

"Yes,  Kitten,  I  can  write  while  the  fever  is 
on  and  the  blood  is  hot.  A  reporter  can  write 
by  the  midnight  oil  and  turn  out  good  copy,  when 
he  is  just  in  from  a  tragedy  in  the  tenderloin, 
where  women  drink  life's  lees  and  aloes  and  leave 
the  world  by  the  suicide  road;  or  fresh  from  a 

252 


Tlie  Recoil  of  Circumstance 

ceremony  at  the  altar  where  a  pistol  shot  in  the 
hands  of  a  jealous  lover  answers  the  chime  of  the 
wedding  bells.  Then,  we  can  write;  then  we 
must  write  to  work  off  emotion  and  clear  the  men 
tal  atmosphere.  But  sustained  writing,  from  re 
flection  and  contemplation,  never !  It  is  intoler 
able  to  me.  I  want  to  drink  the  draught  from 
the  fountain  head.  I  must  find  it  in  the  street; 
at  the  roulette  table;  at  political  headquarters; 
anywhere  where  men  and  women  meet  and  meas 
ure  skill  in  the  game  of  life.  All  I  know  I 
have  gotten  by  contact,  observation,  experience; 
and  I  have  lived  more  life  than  half  the  people 
who  number  twice  my  years. 

"And  now,  Kittie,  I  simply  must  do  some 
thing  to  kill  time  and  I  have  a  plot  that  will 
shock  you  and  Jack — only  Jack  shall  not  know 
of  it  until  it  has  gone  into  history ;  but  you  shall 
see  it  through  with  me.  It  is  too  good  to  keep 
all  to  myself;  I  must  share  it  with  somebody. 
Here,  in  this  corner  room,  I  can  see  the  world 
go  by  and  cannot  mingle  in  it;  but  it  shall  feel 
my  influence  before  I  go.  I  shall  make  that 
strenuous  street  corner  my  stage  while  this  trial 
lasts,  and  I  shall  manage  it,  myself,  and  make 
those  people  furnish  me  with  entertainment,  I 
must  live  in  the  world  of  action  or  die;  I  must 
soe  human  forces  at  work.  This  corner  of 
Twelfth  and  Firloch  streets  shall  be  my  theatre 
of  action  and  you  shall  watch  the  world  do  my 
bidding.  We  are  going  to  have  some  fun  while 
we  wait  here,  my  Ratio,  while  wo  wait,  my  Katy 
did!  Next  time  you  come  to  call  on  the  tenant 

253 


Tillicum  Tales 

in  flat  25,  you  shall  see  the  curtain  rise  on  my 
melodrama. 

"Here  is  a  little  preamble  that  will  give  you 
an  idea  of  the  way  the  game  is  worked.  Oh !  I 
haven't  been  a  detective  and  a  police  reporter 
and  a  dozen  other  things,  all  for  nothing !  I  know 
human  life,  as  you  say,  and  human  nature,  and 
I  can  play  on  human  feelings,  if  anybody  can.  I 
shall  at  any  rate  strike  a  few  discords  on  the 
harp  of  life  while  we  wait,  Katie  mine,  while  we 
wait." 

aYou  called  it  a  game,  awhile  ago." 
"Never  mind,  if  I  see  fit  to  change  my  mata- 
phor,  it  is  not  for  you  to  question,  dear.      Just 
listen  to  an  ad.  which  I  shall  insert  in  the  per 
sonal  columns  of  The  Sunrise,  tomorrow: 

'A  man  of  the  world,  not  yet  gray,  of  good  appearance, 
endowed  with  a  liberal  education  and  a  liberal  supply  of 
worldly  goods,  would  like  to  meet  an  attractive  woman, 
mature  enough  to  be  entertaining.  Please  wear  a  small 
bow  of  white  ribbon  on  your  sleeve  and  be  at  the  corner 
of  Twelfth  and  Firloch  streets  at  4:00  p.  m.,  to-morrow.' 

"That  will  bring  the  women  out.  Now,  we 
want  something  that  will  catch  the  men.  Here 
is  one  that  will  go  into  The  Evening  Roundup 
and  this  will  bring  the  men : 

'A  refined  woman,  somewhat  past  her  first  youth, 
something  of  a  dreamer,  one  who  has  had  no  particular 
past,  but  who  would  like  to  have  a  future,  would  be  glad 
to  meet  a  gentleman  who  can  furnish  some  entertainment 
and,  possibly,  give  her  a  new  outlook  on  life.  Will  wear 
a  white  ribbon  knot  on  her  wrist  for  identification  and  be 
at  Twelfth  and  Firloch  streets  at  four,  to-morrow.' 

254 


The  Recoil  of  Circumstance 

"The  same  people  will  not  read  the  same  ad. ; 
or  if  they  do,  they  will  think  it  a  coincidence ;  or 
whatever  they  think,  they  may  come  if  they  want 
to.  The  more  the  merrier  was  never  truer  than 
in  this  case.  They  will  come  from  all  direc 
tions  and  we  will  stand  at  the  window  in  the 
shadow  and  wateh  the  pantomime  and  pick  the 
winners  as  they  come." 

"It  is  all  clever,  Isobel,  and  amusing,  but  it 
is  unscrupulous.  How  can  you!  how  can  you!" 
pleaded  Kittie. 

"Be  my  guest  day  after  tomorrow  at  four," 
Isobel,  went  on,  laughingly,  "and  I  promise  you 
some  fun.  Look  for  white  ribbons  on  the  way. 
You  are  the  only  one  in  the  secret,  except  Isobel 
Knight,  reporter,  detective,  woman  of  intrigue, 
fugitive  from  justice  and  student  of  human  na 
ture.  Now,  let  me  go  and  call  a  messenger  and 
dispatch  these  little  peace  disturbers  and  then 
I'll  come  back  and  talk  to  you." 

"Do  you  know,  Katie,"  she  went  on,  returning 
from  the  hallway,  "do  you  know  I  am  the  most 
unhappy  woman  alive,  and  I  must  do  something 
all  the  time  to  keep  from  thinking?  And  do  you 
know  you  are  the  dearest  thing  on  earth  to  come 
and  comfort  me  when  I  am  shut  up  here  to  keep 
out  of  the  hands  of  the  authorities ;  when  I  have 
just  had  a  row  with  my  sweetheart  and  have  sent 
him  away,  and  can  do  nothing  but  sit  and  sing 
my  miserere  and  plot  confusion  for  maids  and 
men,  to  keep  from  thinking  of  my  sins?  Yes, 
you  are  the  best  friend  in  the  world,  if  you  did 
say  Jack  Dare  is  a  flirt" 

255 


Tillicum  Tales 

"Who  said  Jack  Dare  is  a  flirt?" 

"You  did.  You  said  he  flirted  with  Bird 
Grimes." 

"You  said  it  yourself." 

"Katherine  Doyle,  you  can  tell  more  whop 
pers  without  blushing  than  any  woman  I  ever 
knew,  except  myself.  But  it  makes  no  difference 
who  said  it,  Jack  does  flirt,  and  that  is  what  is 
killing  me — not  my  sins.  And  every  time  I  cut 
him  or  sting  him  for  his  stupidity  he  goes  off  and 
flirts  with  somebody  to  get  even;  and  I  grow 
furious,  though  I  know  he  doesn't  care  a  cigar 
ette  about  Bird  Grime^  or  any  of  her  kind.  Men 
get  tired  of  caustic  women,  in  time,  and  some 
times  I  think  Jack  is  getting  tired  of  me." 

"Yes,  dear,  it  is  hard  for  a  woman  with  a 
cutting  tongue  to  keep  friends." 

"Yes,  or  a  woman  with  a  selfish  heart,  like 
mine.  Go  on  and  preach.  I  knew  you  had 
come  to  preach  the  minute  you  came  in  the  door. 
Say  I  can't  keep  my  friends,  as  you  have  told  me 
a  thousand  times.  Say  I've  played  off  one 
against  another  and  sacrificed  one  after  another 
for  my  own  selfish  amusement  until  they  have  all 
dropped  me.  But,  oh!  Kittie,"  dropping  into 
a  softer  tone,  "I  am  not  going  to  break  with  you; 
and  if  I  should  have  to  give  up  Jack,  I'd  turn  on 
the  gas  and  call  the  game  off.  Poor  Jack !  whom 
I  have  had  so  long,  working  his  life  away ;  work 
ing  until  his  beautiful  head  is  growing  gray  try 
ing  to  get  money  enough  to  marry  me,  because  I 
won't  marry  him  without  money !  If  I  call  it  all 

256 


The  Recoil  of  Circumstance 

off  and  turn  on  the  gas,  some  day,  will  you  come 
and  watch  with  me,  Katydid?" 

"Isobel,  stop  talking  that  way,"  she  com 
manded,  "he  is  not  going  to  drop  you  and  you 
are  not  going  to  die  of  asphyxiation.  Jack's  love 
for  you  has  withstood  so  many  tests,  that  it  is  not 
going  to  break  now.  But  do  be  good  to  him. 
Now,  talk  about  something  else.  You  have  got 
to  change  the  subject.  Whose  black-eyed  baby 
is  that  on  the  back  porch  making  love  to  me 
through  the  glass  door?" 

"But  whenever  I  hurt  him  or  sting  him,  he 
goes  off  and  flirts  in  retaliation,  and  it's  madden 
ing.  I  am  afraid  there  will  come  a  day  when  he 
will  not  come  back  to  me.  I  am  afraid  that  I 
cannot  hold  him  always.  I  had  a  break  with  him 
just  before  I  moved  into  these  quarters  and  I  sent 
him  away.  I  have  sent  for  him  to  come  back, 
too,  but  he  hasn't  come." 

"Isobel,  I  have  forbidden  you  to  talk  about 
him.  I  shall  leave  your  house,  if  you  bring  back 
the  subject  again." 

"Yes,  I'll  stop,  I'll  stop !  but  you  know  he  had 
and  old  love,  once — or  a  young  love,  I  mean,  and 
they  had  some  kind  of  a  rupture  and  she  married 
somebody  else.  I  only  know  the  bare  facts  and 
I  can  get  nothing  more  out  of  him.  It's  all  in 
the  past  and  it's  dead,  but  it's  maddening  to  have 
even  the  ghost  of  a  woman  between  us.  Oh ! 
don't  go,  Kittle !  Don't  leave  me  to  my  medi 
tations  !  I've  nothing  to  do  but  meditate  and  if 
you  leave  me  I'll  eat  morphine;  smoke  opium; 
drink  absinthe — anything  to  keep  me  from  think- 

257 


Tillicnm  Tales 

ing  about  Jack!  I'll  tell  you  all  about  that 
tangle-haired  baby  and  the  woman  who  owns  her, 
if  you  will  only  stay." 

"She's  trying  to  break  your  glass  door  with 
a  broom  handle.  I'd  like  to  kidnap  her.  Where 
does  she  belong?" 

"In  one  of  the  back  flats  across  the  hall.  Her 
mother  paints  china  and  starves." 

"Who  is  her  mother?  WThy  don't  you  get  ac 
quainted  with  your  neighbors,  if  you  want  to  kill 
time?  There  is  no  danger  in  it.  You  are  here 
under  an  assumed  name,  anyhow." 

"Don't  want  to;  am  not  interested  in  her. 
A  sorry-faced  woman  who  paints  china!  Why 
should  I  cultivate  her  acquaintance?" 

"You  ought  to  be  interested;  it's  a  reporter's 
business  to  be  interested  in  everybody." 

"Oh !  yes,  in  a  general  way.  When  one  is  on 
the  trail  of  a  good  story,  everyone  is  interesting 
who  has  any  connection  with  it,  but  who  could 
be  interested  in  a  woman  who  was  silly  enough 
to  permit  herself  to  be  named  Penelope?  Her 
name  is  Penelope  Webb,  so  the  postman  says, 
and  she  ought  to  be  spinning  and  weaving  and 
ripping  and  raveling  all  day  and  night  to  make 
good  that  name.  It  would  be  a  hardship  to  me 
to  have  to  live  up  to  a  name  that  had  been  made 
and  gone  into  history  before  I  was  born.  But 
she  neither  spins  nor  weaves  nor  waits  for 
Ulysses,  so  far  as  I  can  determine.  She  paints 
china," 

"Then  you  are  interested,  if  you  have  been 
interviewing  the  postman  about  her." 

258 


<>f  Ciroum#ta*ce 

"No,  he  volunteered  the  information,  he  is  a 
loquacious  chap ;  but  to  be  candid,  I  have  a  sort 
of  grievance  against  her,  though  I've  never 
spoken  to  her.  She's  pretty;  too  pretty  for  her 
surroundings.  What  right  have  impoverished 
widows  who  live  in  back  flats  and  paint  china 
and  keep  troublesome  babies,  to  be  pretty." 

"Yes,  that  is  so  logical,  Isobel,  that  I  think 
you  ought  to  try  to  impress  her  with  the  import 
ance  of  it  and  see  if  she  can't  improve  the  mat 
ter.  But  I  must  go.  I  am  overdue  at  the  office, 
with  my  story  of  the  trouble  in  the  Chinese  quar 
ter,  and  I  must  invent  some  excuse  for  the  de- 

I'M'." 

Isobel  followed  her  to  the  door,  protesting, 
and  had  to  set  the  baby  out  of  the  way  to  make  a 
passage  for  her  friend  down  the  back  stairs  by 
which  way  she  was  to  make  a  short  cut  to  the  of 
fice.  "If  you  break  that  door,  I'll  throw  you 
down  stairs,"  she  said  to  the  big-ej-ed  wondering 
baby,  as  she  closed  the  door.  Throwing  herself 
on  the  couch  with  her  hands  behind  her  head,  she 
went  on  addressing  the  baby  through  the  glass, 
as  if  she  heard  and  understood. 

"Fd  fall  in  love  with  you,  you  little  demon,  if 
it  were  not  for  your  pretty  mother.  I'm  called 
handsome,  myself,  and  I  don't  want  a  widow  in 
the  tint  across  my  back  hall  who  is  a  close  second 
to  me,"  she  went  on,  her  tone  softening  in  spite 
of  herself.  Then  her  eyes  drifted  to  the  railing 
and  she  was  lost  in  meditation.  Occasionally 
she  laughed  aloud.  She  was  apparently  not 
thinking  of  the  trial  nor  of  Jack.  She  was  think- 

259 


TilUcum  Tales 

ing  of  the  fun  she  should  have  when  the  gulli 
ble  public  gathered  on  the  corner  in  answer  to 
her  advertisement.  Would  she  have  softened,  if 
the  next  day,  she  could  have  seen  the  picture 
of  a  little  woman  in  a  back  flat  bending  over 
the  morning  paper,  opened  at  the  personal  col 
umn?  Would  she  have  recalled  her  plot  if  she 
could  have  heard  the  words  sobbed  out  over* 
the  printed  sheet :  "I  cannot  starve  and  let  my 
baby  starve!  I  cannot  work;  I  have  never  been 
taught  to  work  and  I  am  so  incompetent  that  no 
body  will  have  me!  But  I  cannot  starve  and  I 
cannot  eat  painted  china ;  and  nobody  will  buy  it. 
I  recoil  from  the  thought  of  meeting  that  man/' 
she  went  on,  breaking  into  fresh  sobs,  "but  I  can 
not  help  it !  Let  the  angels  be  my  judges  and  let 
those  who  will  throw  stones,  I  shall  pin  on  a 
white  ribbon  and  go  and  see  what  he  wants." 
Would  she  have  softened?  However,  it  was  too 
late,  now,  the  game  had  gone  beyond  her  control 
and  the  little  widow  in  the  back  flat  was  in  the 
hands  of  fate. 

Kittle  arranged  with  some  difficulty  to  keep 
her  assignments  and  smuggle  an  hour  to  attend 
IsobePs  entertainment.  She  reached  the  flat  a 
little  before  four  and  found  her  friend  arranging 
the  curtains  to  give  the  best  view  and  yet  screen 
them  from  sight. 

"It  isn't  good  form,"  she  was  saying,  "to 
stand  at  the  window  and  gawk  out,  and,  just 
now,  it  isn't  good  policy." 

"It's  good  form  for  a  reporter  to  do  anything 
within  the  limitations  of  the  statutes,"  answered 

260 


TJie  Recoil  of  Circumstance 

Kittle,  "but  I  agree  with  you  that  it  isn't  good 
policy,  if  you  don't  want  some  chance  acquaint 
ance  in  the  street  to  spot  you." 

"The  curtain  doesn't  rise  till  four,  but  we 
might  stand  here  and  listen  to  the  orchestra," 
indicating  with  her  hand  an  organ  grinder  on 
the  corner,  bareheaded  in  the  rain,  holding  his 
hat  appealingly  toward  the  upper  windows. 
"There  are  so  many  umbrellas  on  the  street  that 
I  imagine  it  will  be  difficult  for  us  to  see  white 
ribbons.  This  rain  is  the  first  obstacle  that  has 
come  up  to  interfere  with  my  little  comedy,  but 
we  shall  have  the  performance  just  the  same.  I 
know  you  don't  more  than  half  countenance  what 
I  am  doing,  but  you  lack  humor,  my  dearie; 
you  lack  what  the  book  reviewers  call  the  saving 
grace  of  humor.  You  are  too  serious  and  too 
conscientious  to  ever  get  much  fun  out  of  life. 
I  confess  I  am  a  little  low  on  the  phrenological 
bump  of  conscientiousness;  but  let  us  study  hu 
man  nature  from  the  street  while  we  wait  for 
the  curtain.  It  is  the  most  fascinating  of  studies 
and  you  don't  get  it  from  books ;  you  get  it  from 
hoads  and  faces,  voices,  attitudes;  every  outward 
expression  means  something  so  definite  that  he 
who  runs  may  read,  if  he  can  read  at  all.  Look 
at  that  old  fellow  paddling  down  the  stream  of 
life.  Analyze  him  a  minute;  see  his  thick  head 
and  pugnacious  nose.  Watch  how  he  plants  his 
feet  widely  apart.  He  would  be  invulnerable 
from  any  point  of  attack.  You  couldn't  argue 
him  down  nor  laugh  him  down,  nor  stampede 
him;  he  is  not  of  the  kind  to  be  frightened. 

261 


Tillicum  Tales 

"But  here  comes  another  interesting  charac 
ter.  She  was  born  for  generalship.  Look  at 
Caesar's  nose.  She  is  commander-in-chief  of  the 
family,  I'll  warrant,  three  generations  of  it.  Just 
now  she  is  in  trouble  of  some  kind.  I  think  she 
has  a  case  of  insubordination  on  her  hands ;  prob 
ably  having  trouble  with  her  daughter-in-law; 
doesn't  like  the  way  the  young  woman  is  bring 
ing  up  the  baby." 

"Maybe  she's  out  after  some  of  our  white  rib 
bon  girls,"  remarked  Kittie.  "Maybe  she  has 
seen  your  ad." 

"It's  two  minutes  to  four,"  rejoined  Isobel, 
"something  ought  to  happen  shortly." 

"Oh!  stand  back,"  exclaimed  Kittie  in  a  low 
tone,  "there  are  some  reporters  coming  down  on 
the  other  side.  Tom  Andrews  is  one  and  the 
other  looks  like  Jack !  Don't  show  yourself  until 
they  get  by." 

"I  wouldn't  have  Tom  Andrews  know  where 
I  am  for  the  world,  Kit;  I  couldn't  trust  him 
not  to  give  me  away ;  but  I  am  dying  to  see  Jack. 
I  know  he  wouldn't  tolerate  what  I  am  doing, 
but  I  wish  I  could  see  him  just  long  enough  to 
tell  him  how  sorry  I  am ;  but  I  must  keep  in  the 
dark.  Watch  every  movement  on  the  street,  Kit- 
tie." 

"Never  mind,  Tom  is  going  on  and  Jack  is 
coming  across.  I  think  he  is  coming  up  here." 

"Oh!  the  old  darling!"  exclaimed  Isobel,  ex 
citedly. 

"Look,  Isobel,  he  has  stopped  to  talk  to  some 
body — a  woman — a  shabby  sort  of  a — " 

262 


The  Recoil  of  Circumstance 

Coming  cautiously  forward,  Isobel  gasped: 
"Oh,  Kit  tic!  it's  the  woman  in  the  back  flat  It's 
Penelope  Webb!  And  saints  and  sinners,  she's 
got  a  white  ribbon  around  her  wrist!  What 
have  I  done!  what  have  I  done!  They  are  both 
here  in  answer  to  my  ad!  They  are  here  on  my 
invitation !  He's  flirting  right  under  my  window 
and  under  my  nose !  I'm  caught  in  my  own  trap ! 
I  am  the  biggest  fool  born  since  the  stars  were 
liunu'  in  heaven!" 

"But  they  seem  to  recognize  each  other,  Iso 
bel — they  are  not  strangers.  She  looks  as  if 
she  were  going  to  drop,  and  Jack  is  all  agita 
tion!" 

"Jack  Dare,  if  you  take  her  arm  I'll  smite 
you  dead,"  interrupted  the  stage  manager.  The 
drama  was  becoming  too  real  for  her.  The  wom 
an  in  the  street  reeled.  He  caught  her  arm  and 
led  her  as  rapidly  as  he  could  through  the  crowd. 
Under  one  umbrella,  they  turned  the  corner  and 
disappeared. 

"They  are  going  off  together!  For  God's 
sake,  Kittie,  stop  them!  Go  after  them!  Stop 
them,  or  I'll  brave  the  whole  police  force  and  go 
myself!  Go!  go!"  And  she  pushed  Kittie  vio 
lently  toward  the  door. 

"Isobel,  you  are  insane!  I  am  not  an  officer; 
I  cannot  arrest  them,  and  they  have  a  right  to 
walk  down  the  street  together,  if  they  want  to. 
I  am  not  going  to  make  a  scene  and  get  myself 
written  up  in  the  newspapers." 

Isobel  tramped  the  floor  and  raged.  Soon, 
through  the  open  door,  they  heard  voices  on  th» 

263 


Tillicum  Tales 

back  stairs,  followed  by  footsteps  passing  Iso- 
bePs  door.  Then  they  heard  Jack's  voice,  in  soft 
est  undertone,  saying :  "My  darling,  my  darling ! 
After  all  these  years !  I  am  getting  gray,  and  I 
haven't  much  money,  but  I  can  take  care  of  you, 
dear.  Stop  crying!  Stop  crying,  darling,  until 
we  get  into  the  house,  and  then  you  may  cry  all 
you  want  to." 

Isobel  sprang  to  the  door,  to  see  two  figures 
disappear  into  the  hallway  of  the  rear  flats,  lean 
ing  a  dripping  umbrella  outside.  She  stood  still 
for  a  minute,  clutched  at  the  door,  clutched  at 
her  throat,  then  staggered  forward  and  threw 
herself,  sobbing,  on  the  couch. 


264 


A  Doubtful  Nationality 


BY 
ELLIE   MILLS  LEE 


.  V 


"The  bluffs  that  loomed  so  close  and  vanished  into  dim  and 
dimmer  distance." 


A  Doubtful 

Nationality 


"little  matter  of  unfinished  husi- 
ness"  disturbed  Richard  Abrel.  He  ga/e;l 
back  over  the  glorious  perspective  of 
wooded  bluffs  and  narrow  sea  as  the  Alaska  liner 
chugged  her  Avay  down  the  homing  waters  of  the 
Sound.  The  late  afternoon  sun  rent  the  curtain 
of  mist  with  shafts  of  orange  and  red,  and  their 
reflection  clothed  the  vessel's  wake  in  ever-vary 
ing  splendor;  but  he  sensed  only  the  bluffs  that 
loomed  so  close  and  receded  quickly  into  dim 
and  dimmer  grayness — they  reminded  him  of  the 
shifting  ways  of  the  widow. 

A  laugh  that  was  joy  itself  and  a  few  bars 
of  song  informed  him  that  on  the  other  side  of 
the  deck  he  might  find  an  opportunity  to  further 
that  "business." 

"Fine  evening,  Mrs.  McGuire,"  he  said,  as  he 
approached  a  comely  woman  standing  beside  the 
port  rail. 

"An'  is  it  yourself,  Richard?"  she  retorted, 
without  turning. 

He  laid  a  firm  hand  on  her  arm  as  if  to  com 
pel  attention. 


Tillicum  Tales 

"Mrs.  McGuire,  you  haven't  told  me  whether 
you'd  take  me  or  not," 

"Listen  to  the  man,  will  ye?  Can't  you  take 
yourself?  Sure,  an'  ye  look  able-bodied  enough." 
Her  roguish  eyes  measured  the  ample  height  of 
him. 

"An'  what  would  I  take  ye  in — a  ban'-box  or 
a  wheelbarrow?  An'  then,  me  foine  man,  if  ye* 
don't  moind  tellin'  the  loiks  o'  poor  me,  where 
is  it  ye  wTant  to  be  taken?" 

"Ah,  now,  stop  your  chaff  an'  tell  me  plain 
if  ye' 11  marry  me?" 

"Haven't  I  told  ye  that  I  promised  me  dead 
Mike  that  I  would  niver  marry  anny  one  but  an 
Irishman?" 

"I'm  Irish,  if  that's  all." 

"Ah,  go  on  with  ye!  How  can  the  loikes  of 
you  be  calling  himself  an  Irishman?  Niver  a 
bit  o'  the  brogue  do  ye  speak." 

"My  parents  were  Irish  and  I  was  born  in 
Cork.  That  certainly  ought  to  make  a  fellow 
Irish." 

"An  'there's  yer  name — Richard  Abrel.  With 
a  shlight  change  it  would  be  Ab ranis,  an'  that 
would  make  a  Jew  of  ye." 

Richard  smiled  in  spite  of  himself.  The  wid- 
ow^'s  banter,  though  exasperating,  always  amused 
him. 

"McGuire,"  she  went  on.  "Now  that  is  a 
name  with  the  true  imerald  color.  Blessings  on 
the  head  of  me  dead  Mike,  savin'  the  bald  spot. 
I  used  to  tell  him  that  he  had  wather  on  the 
brain  and  the  hairs  fell  in  and  were  dhrownded." 

268 


A  Doubtful  Nationality 

At  the  mention  of  the  much-quoted  Mike, 
Richard  ground  his  teeth  till  an  ominous  creak 
warned  him,  and  his  set  jaws  relaxed. 

"Let  us  forget  Mike's  hair  and  think  of  other 
things.  There's  that  fine  house  and  all  I  could 
give  you,  not  to  mention  my  devotion  and  love.1" 

She  turned  slightly  towrard  him  as  she  an 
swered  :  "You're  a  foine  man,  an'  I  won't  be  say- 
in'  yer  money'd  be  no  use  to  me;  but  tell  me 
what  would  a  healthy  Irishwoman  be  doin'  with 
the  name  of  A-a-brel?"  The  thought  was  so  pro 
ductive  of  mirth  that  the  widow's  well-formed 
figure  rippled  with  laughter. 

"Mrs.  O'Brien  and  Mrs.  Donahue  come  to 
call,  spreadin'  their  dresses  out  grand  on  the 
best  parlor  chairs,  would  ask  all  tinder  and  so 
licitous:  'What  is  it  yer  new  man  is,  Kate? 
Is  he  Fr-rinch,  did  ye  say?  Or  is  he  a  bloody 
Englishman?'" 

She  took  a  step  toward  the  rail,  and  leaning 
over,  shook  her  head  in  mock  despair,  as  she 
added:  "I'd  be  thinkin'  a  long  time  before  I'd 
change  the  good  name  of  McGuire  for  one  loike 
that." 

They  were  nearing  the  harbor.  West  Point 
Light  threw  a  shaft  of  gilded  green  across  the 
murky  water.  The  modern  city  of  the  seven  hills 
gleamed  in  her  electric  jewels  as  she  offered  a 
welcome  to  the  returning  Argonauts  of  the 
North. 

Civilized  joys  dreamed  of  and  so  long  fore 
gone  were  again  made  real  as  the  bright-colored 
harbor  lights  danced  in  the  water. 

269 


Tillicum  Tales 

The  man  moved  to  the  side  of  his  companion 
and  stood  fascinated  by  the  night-beauty  of  the 
city.  Off  there  in  the  distance  the  gleaming 
sparks  represented  home  with  all  the  comforts 
and  the  companionship  the  word  bespoke.  The 
vision  accentuated  in  his  mind  his  own  evaded 
question  and  the  necessity  of  getting  a  decisive 
answer  before  the  wharf  was  reached. 

"Mrs.  McGuire,  you  have  been  thinking  a  long 
time." 

She  looked  up  writh  her  accustomed  levity,  but- 
met  a  look  of  firm  determination.  With  a  shrug 
she  tried  to  free  herself  from  his  detaining  gaze, 
but  his  love-eagerness  enveloped  her  and  tem 
porarily  smothered  her  banter. 

"If  you  have  nothing  against  me  you  wouldn't 
let  the  little  matter  of  a  name  hinder  you,  would 
you?  I  feel  sure,  dear  heart,  you  could  love  me. 
And  what's  in  a  name?  One's  as  good  as  another 
if  it  is  honest.  For,  sure,  the  one  I'm  offering 
hasn't  the  true  Hibernian  flavor — no  Mc's  nor  O's 
in  it.  It  came  from  Ireland  just  the  same,  and 
if  you'll  only  take — " 

He  ceased  abruptly  and  drew  back.  Some 
thing  seemed  to  fill  his  mouth  and  choke  further 
utterance.  Putting  up  his  hand  he  offered  some 
pantomimic  explanation  and  hastily  retired  to 
his  cabin. 

With  a  surprised  catch  of  the  breath  the 
widow  looked  after  the  retreating  figure  of  her 
suitor. 

270 


.1    Douhtful  \tititniu  lit  i/ 

"What  ails  the  man,  annyhow?  He  acts  loike 
something  sthuok  in  liis  throat.  Faith,  an'  I  be- 
lave  it's  his  name,"  laughed  she. 

The  boat  was  fast  nearing  the  dock.  Shorter 
grew  the  bars  of  colored  light  from  the  red  and 
green  will-o'-the-wisps  which  were  resolved  into 
wharf  lanterns.  Peering  eyes  of  the  returners 
searched  for  half -forgotten  landmarks  while  their 
hands  groped  confusedly  for  baggage. 

In  his  cabin  Richard  Abrel  spit  out  the  frag 
ments  of  his  collapsed  dental  structure,  and 
cursed  the  fate  that  made  false  teeth  a  neces 
sity;  or,  since  they  were,  damned  the  dentists 
\\  ho  lacked  ingenuity  to  make  the  plate  unbreak 
able. 

Here  he  was,  with  his  fate  undecided,  and  the 
precious  moments  slipping  away.  The  idea  of 
not  being  able  to  persuade  the  charming  widow 
to  make  a  decision,  because  his  teeth  gave  way, 
was  maddening. 

In  the  midst  of  his  agitation  he  remembered 
that  he  did  not  know  her  address.  She  was  go 
ing  to  stay  with  her  sister,  she  had  told  him. 
But  where  did  her  sister  live?  He  recalled  the 
myriad  lights  adorning  the  hills  and  wondered 
how  in  i>erdition  he  could  determine  which  one 
was  nearest  her.  While  he  hated  to  encounter 
h<-r  raillery  at  his  changed  appearance,  he  knew 
he  must  learn  the  street  and  number  before  she 
left  the  vessel. 

The  steamer  no  longer  moved,  and  the  noises 
from  the  dock  told  him  the  passengers  were  dis- 

271 


TiUicum  Tales 

embarking.  He  picked  up  his  traps  in  haste,  and, 
muffling  his  face,  made  for  the  gang-plank. 

Among  those  crowded  around  he  failed  to  dis 
cover  the  widow.  Neither  did  he  see  her  familiar 
figure  in  the  stream  on  the  wharf. 

Down  dropped  his  heart,  as  does  the  ther 
mometer  in  the  land  he  had  recently  quit.  If 
she  had  disappeared  into  that  labyrinth  of  streets 
and  houses  he  knew  he  would  play  at  long  odds 
in  finding  her.  With  a  lingering  hope  he  kept 
his  eyes  on  the  pier.  Out  of  a  shadow  at  the 
farthest  end  stepped  two  figures,  and  his  love- 
quickened  eyes  recognized  Mrs.  McGuire.  The 
slight  girl  beside  her  seemed  inclined  to  haste, 
but  the  widow  lingered. 

"Oh,  can  it  be  for  me,  or  is  it  natural  per- 
verseness?"  he  thought. 

In  desire  he  leaped  to  her  side,  but  his  physi 
cal  efforts  were  tied — held  prisoner  by  that  mul 
titude  of  other  efforts — a  moving  crowd.  He 
strained  forward  and  the  perspiration  dripped 
down  his  face.  There  was,  however,  no  place  to 
stop.  By  the  law  of  the  crowd  he  could  only 
shuffle  off  the  plank  like  a  miserable  card  in  a 
deck,  and  at  any  moment  she  might  make  up 
her  mind  to  hurry. 

At  last  his  feet  swung  free  and  he  raced  up 
the  pier,  to  see  the  two  women  disappear  around 
the  corner  of  a  warehouse. 

When  he  again  caught  sight  of  them  they 
were  crossing  Railroad  Avenue  at  Yesler  Way. 
Redoubling  his  haste,  he  hoped  to  overtake  them 
before  they  reached  the  cable  car.  Up  the  cross 

272 


A.  Doubtful  Nationality 

street  he  turned,  close  in  their  footsteps,  when  a 
train,  the  puffing  engine  of  which  he  failed  to 
see,  obstructed  his  path  and  shut  them  again 
from  his  view. 

In  rage  he  stamped  up  and  down,  ineffect 
ively  searching  some  course  for  advance,  fhe 
train,  however,  soon  passed  and  he  resumed  his 
pursuit.  Crossing  at  Pioneer  Square,  he  saw 
the  two  women  step  from  the  curb  and  board  a 
Yesler  car. 

A  sigh  of  relief  escaped  him,  for  he  felt  that 
at  last  he  could  reach  her.  As  Richard  drew 
near  he  determined  to  board  the  car  and,  follow 
ing  unobserved,  learn  the  address  without  accost 
ing  the  widow. 

There  was  still  half  a  block  to  the  car  when 
the  conductor  sounded  the  bell.  He  sprinted, 
made  a  grab  for  the  bar,  missed  it  and  took  the 
wet  pavement  on  his  elbowT8.  Futile  seemed  his 
struggle  when,  borne  back  to  his  despairing  ears, 
came  the  familiar,  musical  brogue: 

"Where  was  it  ye  said,  Aggie?  217  Tinth 
Avnoo  South?  Why,  that's  the  same  old  place 
you  used  to  live." 

Richard  Abrel  arose,  bespattered  but  happy, 
and  without  delay  found  a  hotel.  When  shown 
to  his  room  he  made  some  perfunctory  attempts 
to  remove  the  evidence  of  his  fall.  Catching 
sight  of  his  face  in  the  mirror  and  noting  the 
change  effected  by  his  dental  mishap,  he  ex 
claimed  : 

"Well,  I'll  be  damned!  If  I  don't  look  like 
a  deserted  claim  with  the  sluices  half  down!" 

273 


Tillicum  Tales 

Taking  out  his  watch  and  observing  that  it 
lacked  some  minutes  to  nine,  he  determined  to 
see  something  of  the  town  before  retiring. 

After  about  an  hour's  travel  along  First  and 
Second  Avenues  and  Pike  Street,  meeting  as  he 
went  many  acquaintances  who  "celebrated"  his 
return,  he  found  himself  again  at  the  Yesler  ter 
minus.  His  carriage  had  a  military  erectness, 
although  his  walk  was  somewhat  uncertain. 

The  "unfinished  business"  of  the  day  was 
brought  to  his  mind  when  he  viewed  again  the 
scene  of  his  accident.  He  repeated  the  address 
he  had  overheard,  "217  Tenth  Avenue  South." 

Gazing  around  at  the  brilliantly  lighted 
streets,  he  concluded  that  it  could  not  be  very 
late;  so  he  determined  to  call  that  very  night 
and  make  her  give  him  a  decided  answer. 

A  gleeful  chuckle  expressed  his  satisfaction  at 
the  decision,  but  hard  on  its  heels  came  the  re 
membrance  of  the  vacant  upper  chamber  of  his 
mouth.  With  a  groan  he  realized  how  impossible 
it  would  be  under  the  circumstances  to  force  the 
jovial  widow  to  seriousness. 

Moved  by  a  weariness  born  of  his  dashed 
hopes  and  frequent  libations,  he  sat  down  on 
some  steps  near  at  hand.  A  showcase  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  door  excited  his  curiosity. 

He  arose  and  gazed  at  the  displayed  articles 
with  fascinated  eyes.  Taking  a  step  forward, 
he  remarked :  "What  comes  to  your  hand,  take, 
says  I."  There  was  a  shiver  of  broken  glass  as 
outward  shot  his  fist.  He  selected  something 
from  the  contents.  After  a  few  maxillary  twists, 

274 


A  Doubtful  Nationality 

Richard  Abrel  found  that  what  came  to  his  hand 
fitted  very  well  in  his  mouth. 

No  one  was  near  save  the  Italian  peanut 
vendor,  who  turned  at  the  sound  of  falling  glass. 
In  astonishment  he  viewed  the  shattered  show 
case  and  the  scene  enacted  there.  Richard,  be 
coming  hazily  conscious  of  the  Italian's  scrutiny, 
jravc  him  a  confiding  wink  as  he  went  by,  up 
Yesler  Way. 

On  up  the  hill  with  a  free  stride — almost  too 
free  at  times — he  took  his  way  till  he  reached 
Tenth  Avenue.  To  the  south  he  turned  with  the 
determined  step  of  a  would-be  conqueror.  When 
he  reached  217,  he  saw  the  house  ablaze  with 
lights.  Music  floated  out,  and  through  the  lace 
curtains  he  discerned  the  moving  figures  of  young 
people. 

A  girl  at  the  piano  was  playing  a  movement 
so  stirring  that  it  made  his  heels  uneasy.     Into 
the  middle  of  the  room  whirled  the  widow,  giv 
ing  voice  and  motion  to  the  melody.     Through 
the  open  door  came  tones  which  had  made  heav 
enly  many  evenings  on  the  voyage  down. 
"Lads  and  lasses  to  your  places, 
Up  the  middle  and  down  again," 
she  sang,  as  her  sprightly  figure  moved  in  grace 
ful  pantomime.    Richard  cautiously  ascended  the 
steps  to  gain  a  nearer  view  of  his  enchantress. 

The  playing  stopped  suddenly,  as  the  girl  at 
the  piano  turned  on  the  stool  and  exclaimed: 
"Oh,  Aunt  Kate,  do  sing  grandma's  song!  I 
want  my  friends  to  hear  you." 

275 


Tillicum  Tales 

"Ah,  go  on  wid  ye,  Aggie!  What  for  would 
an  oP  woman  loike  me  be  takin'  the  floor  at  a 
young  folks'  party?" 

Importunities  came  from  all  sides,  and  Mrs. 
McGuire  was  at  last  prevailed  upon  to  grant 
her  niece's  request.  She  mounted  a  low  chair  as 
Aggie  again  took  her  place  at  the  piano.  After 
the  opening  chords,  the  widow  began : 
"A  female  auctioneer  I  am, 

I  don't  come  here  with  pelf. 
The  lot  that  I  now  have  in  hand 

It  is  to  sell  myself. 
I  am  going,  going,  cried  she, 
Who  bids  for  a  wife  in  me?" 

The  spirited  action  and  alluring  voice  of  the 
widow  thrilled  her  unseen  listener.  "Going,  go 
ing,"  suggested  to  Richard  the  possibility  of  loss. 
He  turned,  and  passing  in  at  the  open  door, 
quickly  made  his  way  to  the  parlor.  Oblivious 
of  the  astonished  guests  he  strode  forward  until 
he  stood  before  his  evasive  charmer. 

"Who  bids?  Why,  I  do.  Haven't  I  been  bid 
ding  all  the  way  down  from  Alaska?" 

The  company  caught  its  breath  with  a  gasp, 
and  the  widow  gave  a  little  scream  on  sight  of 
him.  She,  however,  quickly  recovered  her  com 
posure,  and  said : 

"Sure,  an'  if  it  ain't  Richard  himself."  She 
covered  her  face  with  her  hand  in  mock  modesty. 
But  Richard  Abrel  this  time  was  not  to  be  put 
off  with  playfulness. 

"Mrs.  McGuire,  I  have  come  determined  to 
have — "  but  the  remainder  of  his  speech  was 

276 


A  Doubtful  Nationality 

drowned  in  the  heavy  tramp  of  feet  as  a  police 
man,  followed  by  the  Italian,  hurried  in. 

Advancing  into  the  room  he  looked  at  Rich 
ard,  and  inquired  of  his  companion : 

"Is  this  the  man?" 

"Oh-a,  yes.    Dat  ees-a  da  man." 

"You  come  with  me,"  said  the  officer,  laying 
a  compelling  hand  on  Abrel's  shoulder. 

"I  haven't  time,"  replied  Richard,  with  an 
effort  to  shake  free.  "Mrs.  McGuire,  will  you — " 

"Come,  come,  my  man;  none  of  that.  Walk 
along  quietly  and  you'll  have  no  trouble."  He 
tried  to  draw  Richard  peaceably  to  the  door. 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  come  for,  any 
way?"  asked  Richard,  turning  to  the  policeman 
in  irritation. 

Before  he  could  reply,  the  little  Italian 
bobbed  accusingly  in  front. 

"You  break-a  da  box;  you  steal-a  da  glass 
tooth.  See?"  He  pointed  a  suggestive  finger 
into  his  cavernous  mouth. 

Richard's  shoulders  drooped  as  a  misty  recol 
lection  came  to  him.  He  put  his  hand  to  his 
mouth,  but  glancing  at  the  widow,  quickly  re 
moved  it. 

During  the  excitement  Mrs.  McGuire  had 
climbed  down  from  her  improvised  rostrum.  She 
approached  the  representative  of  the  law. 

"Go  on  wid  ye,  now!  Ye  wouldn't  be  takin' 
the  word  of  that  little  Dago,"  with  a  deprecatory 
brush  of  her  hand,  "agin  that  of  a  dacint-sized 
man,  would  ye?  Sure,  an'  he's  done  no  har-rm. 
Jist  come  to  call  on  his  frinds  quoiet  loike." 

277 


Tillicum  Tales 

Turning  to  her  lover,  she  added:     "Spake  up, 
Richard,  an'  give  thim  the  lie." 

A  dull-red  wave  of  confusion  mantled  Rich 
ard's  face,  while  he  remained  silent. 

"What  would  ye  be  wantin'  a  set  of  false 
teeth  for,  annyhow?  Haven't  ye  a  foine — " 

She  stopped,  and  her  expression  changed  as 
if  by  recollection.  Smilingly  nodding  her  head, 
she  continued,  addressing  herself: 

"Faith,  thin,  it  was  something  more  than  the 
name  that  sthuck  in  his  throat." 

Sitting  down,  Mrs.  McGuire  laughed.  When 
she  had  finished  a  good  measure,  she  laughed 
again.  Every  time  she  looked  at  Richard,  her 
risibilities  were  excited  anew. 

The  greater  the  widow's  merriment,  the  more 
indignant  became  Abrel.  Exasperated,  he  rush 
ed  from  the  house,  closely  pursued  by  the  police 
man  and  the  Italian. 

With  ease  they  took  him  to  the  City  Hall. 
In  the  office  he  discovered  that  his  trip  "down 
the  line"  had  so  decimated  his  cash  in  hand  that 
he  had  not  sufficient  bail.  There  was  nothing  to 
do  but  spend  the  remainder  of  the  night  in  jail. 

Wearily  he  sank  down  against  the  wall  of  his 
cell.  With  frowning  browrs  he  brooded  over  the 
disastrous  outcome  of  his  nocturnal  escapade. 
The  widow's  laughter  was  a  hornet  that  wounded 
his  vanity  at  numberless  points.  For  the  time 
being  she  seemed  unworthy  of  pursuit. 

He  was  roused  from  his  reverie,  as  along  the 
corridor  hurried  a  flood  of  feminine  invective. 

278 


A  Doubtful  Nationality 

"Aw !  the  dir-ity  place.  That  murderin'  rap 
scallion  of  a  policeman  to  bring  anny  one  here. 
If  iver  I  get  me  two  hands  on  him !" 

The  voice  stopped  as  the  jailer  swung  open 
the  door  of  AbreFs  cell.  In  bounded  a  familiar 
figure. 

"Richard,  Richard,"  came  in  rolling  accents 
as  Mrs.  McGuire  peered  into  the  darkness. 

Richard,  however,  felt  abused  and  did  not 
rise  with  the  wonted  haste  that  cry  begot.  See 
ing  that  he  sat  unmoved  against  the  wall,  she 
crossed  and  knelt  beside  him.  Tender  solicitude 
was  woven  in  her  question. 

"Richard,  darlint,  are  ye  hurt?" 

She  paused,  but  receiving  no  answer,  contin 
ued  :  "If  iver  I  get  a  chance  at  that  ongracious 
spalpeen  that  dhragged  ye  here,  I'll  take  a  bit 
iv  the  concait  out  of  'im."  And  the  widow  shook 
her  shapely  fist  at  an  imaginary  bluecoat. 

"I  followed  ye  jist  as  soon  as  I  got  a  bit  of 
money,  for  I  was  afeared  you'd  have  none  by 
ye,  an'  I  couldn't  have  ye  shtay  in  jail  the  night. 
Come,  now,"  and  she  coaxingly  attempted  to  as 
sist  him. 

He  made  no  attempt  to  uprise,  but  settling 
back,  fronted  her  determinedly.  Inarticulate 
was  his  voice,  but  his  tone  was  firm :  "Mrs.  Mc 
Guire,  you  haven't  answered  my  question." 

For  a  moment  there  was  no  reply,  while  the 
widow  repressed  a  gurgle;  but  when  it  came 
Richard  recognized  a  love-softened  bit  of  the  old 
scintillation. 

279 


Tillicum  Tales 

"Faith,  Richard,  me  own,  I'll  forgive  ye  your 
name,  for  it's  mesilf  knows  no  one  but  an  Irish 
man  would  be  shtealin'  a  set  of  false  teeth." 


280 


Old  Bill's  Awkward 
Squad 

BY 
ALICE  HARRIMAN-BROWNE 

Author  of 
Songs  o*  the  Sound,"  "Chaperoning  Adrienne,"  etc. 


'Taps  blowcd!'  Bill  exclaimed  feebly." 


Old  Bill's  Awkward 
Squad 


LD  BILL  rose  to  go.  The  drummer  no- 
ticed  that  he  carried  himself  with  mili- 
tary  precision,  although  his  head  shook 
slightly,  as  with  palsy. 

"Better  stay  in  town  to-night,  Bill,"  suggest 
ed  the  station  agent,  with  kindly  inflection. 
"It's  bitter  cold." 

The  drummer  shivered  as  he  turned  from  the 
window  to  the  warmth  of  the  big  stove.  Would 
his  belated  train  never  come?  A  man  came  into 
the  waiting-room,  cold  air  entering  with  him. 
He  walked  noisily  to  the  ticket  window,  spoke 
to  the  agent,  then  sat  on  a  tool-box,  idly.  From 
a  door  opening  into  the  room  back  of  the  tele 
graph  office  a  glimpse  of  a  woman  rocking  a 
child  could  be  seen.  Her  soft  lullaby  crooned 
its  sleepiness,  which  the  rhythmic  creak  of  her 
chair  helped  to  induce.  Bill  listened  to  the  song. 
The  agent's  advice  and  the  other  men  were  un 
heeded. 

"She  sings  like  the  Colonel's  lady,"  Bill  mut 
tered,  nodding  in  the  direction  of  the  agent's 
wife.  "Our  Colonel's  lady's  bringin'  Bobbie  up 

283 


Old  Bill's  Awkward  Squad 

jes'  right,  an' — "  his  voice  trailed  off  into  incer 
titude.  He  passed  his  shaking  hand  over  his 
forehead,  dreamily.  The  agent  and  telegraph 
operator,  a  man  of  few  words  and  many  duties, 
turned  his  eyes  in  the  direction  that  Bill  was 
gazing,  and  they  softened  at  the  sight  of  what 
made  the  whole  world  to  him. 

"Where  you  going,  Bill?"  inquired  the  drum 
mer.  The  old  man  made  no  reply,  but  pulled  on 
his  mittens,  worn  to  ravelled  thumbs.  As  the 
drummer  had  left  the  west-bound  train,  the  early 
winter  twilight  had  revealed  nothing  but  this 
tiny,  dull-red  depot,  a  one-story  store  with  a 
rough  board  nailed  on  the  unpainted  door,  with 
"Post-Office"  rudely  printed  on  it;  three  or  four 
board-front  and  log-sided  saloons,  with  dirt 
roofs,  and  the  unending  prairie.  The  train,  as 
it  sped  on  its  way,  dipped  below  the  horizon 
as  does  a  ship  at  sea.  The  steel  rails  became  as 
one  in  western  and  eastern  converging  perspect 
ive.  The  world  seemed  empty  of  life  except  this 
meager  settlement  huddled  close  to  the  railroad 
track.  Far  to  the  south  a  dark  strip  against  the 
snow  showed  where  the  leafless  cottonwoods  bor 
dered  the  melancholy  Missouri.  The  loneliness 
was  like  a  pall. 

"Better  stay,  Bill,"  repeated  the  agent,  busy 
with  his  reports.  "We'll  make  a  shakedown  for 
you,  if  you  don't  want  to  go  over  to  the  store." 

"Ye're  welcome  to  come,"  put  in  the  man  on 
the  tool-box,  to  whom  the  traveling  man  had 
nodded  as  his  customer  of  the  hour  previous. 

284 


Old  Bill's  Awkwwd  Squad 

"Where  you  going,  anyway?"  persisted  the 
stranger,  shaking  down  the  stove.  "I  shouldn't 
think  that  there  was  a  house  within  a  hundred 
miles  of  here." 

With  his  hand  on  the  door-latch  Old  Bill 
looked  in  surprise  at  the  drummer. 

"W'y,  I'm  goin'  to  the  post.  Where'd  ye 
s'pose?  There's  a  hop  over  to  the  gym  to-night, 
an'  the  Colonel's  lady'll  be  'spectin'  me  to  look 
after  the  awkward  squad.  That's  what  me'n 
the  Colonel's  lady  calls  'em.  They's  Bobbie,  an' 
Clara,  an'  John  Hancock,  an'  Angel  ChiF — a 
hull  raft  of  'em.  Bobbie  an'  Clara's  sweetheart's 
a'ready — the  little  tikes!  And  they  ain't  more'n 
eight — think  o'  that!"  The  old  man  laughed,  in 
loving  glee.  He  squared  his  shoulders  conscious 
ly,  proudly,  feeling  the  responsibility  of  his 
trust ;  but  he  looked  pitifully  thin,  and  too  light 
ly  clad.  "I  can't  stay,  reely,"  he  added,  turning 
to  the  other  men,  "thank  ye  kindly." 

"Well,  'f  ye're  boun'  to  go,  Bill— "the  store 
keeper  rose  unexpectedly  and  ripped  off  his  big 
buffalo  coat,  "ye  wear  this!  I  shan't  need  it 
to-night."  He  thrust  Bill's  arms  into  the  sleeves, 
buttoned  the  coat  hastily,  turned  up  the  collar 
with  a  jerk,  and  avoided  the  men's  eyes.  "There," 
he  said,  heartily,  "that's  better!  Ye  c'n  bring 
it  back  when  ye  come  in  agin." 

Gratitude  beamed  from  the  veteran's  eyes  as 
he  rubbed  the  thick  fur.  "I  los'  my  buffeler  coat 
w'en  the  Injuns  was  out,  las'  fall,"  he  said.  Then 
he  went  out  and  the  creak-craunch  of  his  foot- 

285 


Tillicum  Tales 

steps  on  the  frozen  platform  was  audible  until 
he  took  the  ill-defined  trail. 

"The  post!"  ejaculated  the  drummer,  giving 
his  chair  a  hitch  nearer  the  fire.  "What's  the 
man  talking  about?  And  Indians!  Were  they 
on  the  warpath  last  fall?  I  didn't  see  anything 
in  the  papers.  I  thought — "  he  moistened  his 
lips,  "I  thought  the  Indians  were  civilized!" 
He  glanced  furtively  at  the  window,  half  expect 
ing  to  see  gleaming,  cruel  eyes  peering.  It  was 
his  first  trip  West. 

The  trader  tapped  his  forehead.  "Cracked," 
he  explained.  "Old  Bill's  never  been  right  in  his 
mind  since  '78.  Injuns  scalped  his  kids  right 
before  his  eyes,  an'  took  his  wife — bound  to  a 
cayuse's  back.  Bill  'ud  'a  killed  her  himself  'fore 
he'd  let  her  be  took;  but  he  was  shot  'mos'  to 
pieces,  an'  couldn't  git  to  her.  The  Tenth  came 
up,  jes'  too  late.  Saved  him;  but  the  woman — " 
He  sighed,  and  puffed  furiously  at  his  cob  pipe. 
The  drummer  shuddered  at  the  picture  thrown 
on  the  canvas  of  his  imagination. 

"Bill  stayed  with  the  Tenth,"  went  on  the 
storekeeper,  presently,  "an'  finally  'listed.  He 
was  mad  to  kill.  I  was  post-trader  when  the 
Tenth  was  here.  The  fort  was  right  in  this  bend 
of  the  Missoury  then.  After  a  while  Old  Bill 
got  queer,  an'  took  to  shakin'.  The  Colonel's 
wife  pitied  him ;  an',  as  he  was  gentle,  an'  always 
gittin'  the  kids  'roun'  him,  she  had  him  take 
care  of  em',  odd  times;  mos'ly  w'en  there  was 
any  doin's  at  the  gymnasium — dances  an'  sich. 
'Twas  the  putties'  sight  ye  ever  seen  w'en  he 

286 


Old  Bill's  Awkward  Squad 

drilled  the  officer's  chil'un!  Lord!"  The  old- 
timer  looked  with  reminiscent  eye  toward  the 
smoke-grimed  ceiling.  "  'Twas  surely  great !"  he 
added,  dreamily. 

"Queer  I  didn't  see  any  fort,"  commented  the 
drummer,  making  way  for  the  agent,  who  brought 
a  scuttle  of  coal  and  banked  the  stove  for  the 
night.  "Where  is  it?  And  how  many  companies 
are  here?" 

"Oh,  the  post's  been  abandoned  this  twenty 
year,"  replied  the  trader,  surprised.  "Didn't  ye 
know?  What's  lef  o'  the  buildin's  are  clost  to 
them  cottonwoods  south  o'  town." 

"Why  was  Old  Bill  left?"  The  drummer 
showed  his  disapproval. 

"Why?"  repeated  the  agent,  his  work  over, 
and  inclined  to  join  in  the  conversation.  "It's 
just  this  way.  Old  Bill  wouldn't  go.  After  the 
troops  went,  some  of  the  buildings  were  sold  and 
moved  away.  Of  the  rest,  'most  anyone  who 
wants  boards  or  brick  goes  over  there  (it's  only 
two  miles),  and  helps  himself.  But  the  hospital 
and  gymnasium,  and  part  of  officer's  row,  are 
standing;  though  they're  pretty  well  gone  to 
pieces.  Old  Bill  lives  in  the  hospital." 

"What  on?"  asked  the  drummer,  bluntly. 

"God  knows!"  was  the  equally  blunt  reply. 
"His  eight  per — his  pension,  I  suppose.  We've 
tried  to  persuade  him  to  go  to  the  Soldiers'  Home. 
But  he  won't  listen  to  it" 

"Bill  thinks  they're  all  here  yit,"  added  the 
trader,  glad  to  gossip  through  the  long  evening. 
"He'll  come  to  my  store,  like  w'en  I  was  post- 
287 


Tillicum  Tales 

trader,  an'  buy  little  things  fer  the  kids,  an'  tell 
how  the  Colonel's  wife  trusts  him,  'Twould 
break  yer  heart !  One  c'n  slip  in  things  that  one 
knows  he  needs,  he's  so  muddled-like,"  he  con 
cluded,  with  a  guilty  air. 

The  telegraph  operator  went  to  the  outer 
door,  opened  it,  and  gazed  over  the  vague  white 
ness  of  the  plain,  lighted  by  a  crescent  moon. 
"I  can  just  see  him,"  he  called  back.  "I  wish 
that  we  hadn't  let  him  go.  Like's  not  he  hasn't 
a  stick  of  wood  or  coal  in  when  he  gets  home — 
and  he's  old.  Poor  devil !"  A  sharp  call,  rapidly 
repeated,  of  his  office,  came  insistently,  and  he 
hastened  to  the  key. 

"It's  a  shame  those  army  officers  who  knew 
Old  Bill  couldn't  look  after  him!"  The  drum 
mer  was  indignant. 

"Oh,  you  know  how  'tis  with  army  folks!" 
excused  the  trader,  easily.  "I  seen  in  some  paper 
that  the  Colonel  died  soon  after  he  left  here ;  an' 
the  res'  jes'  nachally  scattered.  The  kids  were 
too  small  to  remember  a  doty  private,  o'  course." 

"You're  out  of  luck,"  interrupted  the  tele 
graph  operator,  again  coming  to  the  waiting- 
room.  "A  special's  out,  and  everything's  side 
tracked  for  it — regular  No.  4,  and  all.  Some 
high  mucky-mucks  evidently.  The  wire  isn't 
working  very  well,  and  I  couldn't  make  out  ex 
actly  ;  but  I  understood  that  they're  to  stop  here." 

"For  water,  perhaps,"  suggested  the  trader. 

"Likely,"  was  the  noncommittal  reply. 

"I'm  a  little  late— a  little  late,"  Old  Bill 
muttered  as  he  neared  the  dark  line  of  trees  and 

288 


Old  Bill's  Aickutird  Squad 

the  still  darker  shadows  of  the  abandoned  post 
He  breathed  heavily  as  he  tried  to  hasten,  and 
his  shadow  wavered  grotesquely  in  the  waning 
moonlight,  as  he  walked  against  the  wind.  The 
big  fur  coat  made  his  thin  legs  look  even  more 
thin.  "Taps  blowed !"  he  exclaimed,  feebly.  "But 
how  the  lights  are  shinin'  over  on  officers'  row !" 
The  moonlight  struck  glancingly  on  the  broken 
window-panes  of  the  buildings,  as  he  continued : 
"An'  look  at  the  gym — lighted  from  suller  to  gar 
ret!  There'll  be  dancin'  there  'til  mornin',  I'm 
thinkin' !" 

After  Old  Bill  entered  what  had  once  been 
the  general  ward  of  the  hospital,  he  built  a  rous 
ing  fire  of  driftwood,  and  the  rusty  stove  glowed 
red.  He  seated  himself  contentedly  and  began 
to  arrange  sundry  small  packages  on  the  pine 
table.  "I'm  not  late,  after  all,"  he  said,  as  he 
glanced  around.  "No  one  here  yit!" 

The  walk  and  the  keen  air  had  made  him 
sleepy.  He  drowsed,  and  the  fire  burned  low. 
The  door  opening  into  the  hall,  hanging  loosely 
on  its  creaking  hinges,  swung  open  in  the  draught 
and  the  noise  aroused  him. 

"I'm  right  here,  ma'am!"  he  said,  apologeti 
cally,  as  he  rose  hastily  and  saluted.  "I  didn't 
hear  yer  knock.  Sweet's  a  picter  ye  look,  Jf  ye'll 
'scuse  me  sayin'  so.  An'  here's  Bobbie!  Grows 
more  like  his  pa  every  day  he  lives — the  breath- 
in'  image!"  He  bustled  around,  straightening 
the  ragged  table  cover,  and  setting  his  solitary 
chair  near  the  stove  for  his  imaginary  visitors. 
"The  Colonel's  waitin'  fer  ye  outside,  d'ye  say? 

289 


Tillicum  Tales 

Very  well.  Don't  worry  'bout  Bobbie.  Wy, 
he's  mos'  nine,  ain't  ye,  Bobbie?  Ye'll  be  safe 
with  Old  Bill,  won't  ye?  We'll  have  a  drill,  d'ye 
say?  Sure!  I'll  put  ye  through  yer  steps,  never 
ye  fear!"  Then  Old  Bill  held  the  door  as  wide 
as  in  the  days  when  he  escorted  his  colonel's  wife 
to  the  steps,  and  he  bowed  as  low.  Returning 
to  the  room  he  smiled  at  the  vision  of  a  curly- 
haired  boy,  and  stirred  up  the  dying  embers  in 
the  stove,  a  few  sparks  responding  brightly. 
There  was  no  more  wood. 

"Look  what  a  gran'  fire  we've  got  to-night, 
Bobbie!"  said  the  old  soldier,  briskly.  "The 
striker  didn't  bring  in  much  wood,  but  this'll  do. 
It's  drefful  cold  w'en  all  that  blaze  don't  warm 
the  ward,  ain't  it,  eh?"  He  shivered,  uncontrolla 
bly.  "Run,  lad!  Open  the  door!  There's  a 
knock!"  The  door  swung  open  once  more,  for 
the  wind  was  increasing,  and  a  swirl  of  dust 
from  unswept  halls  rushed  in.  "There  ye're, 
chil'en — a  hull  raft  of  ye!  Come  in!  come  in! 
Clara,  yer  ma's  fixed  ye  up  like  ye  was  goin' 
to  the  hop,  'stid  o'  comin'  to  stay  with  Old  Bill ! 
Henry,  stop  lookin'  an'  peekin'  into  them  pack 
ages!  John  Hancock,  git  off'n  the  cot!  Come 
here,  Angel  Child!  An'  'f  I  live,  'f  here  ain't 
baby!  Never  come  to  see  me  before!  Don't  be 
scared  of  Old  Bill!  I  won't  hurt  ye!" 

Tire  old  soldier  walked  to  one  of  the  high, 
UP. curtained  windows,  his  arms  bent  as  though 
holding  an  infant.  "Look,  baby!  yer  ma's  right 
over  there,  a-dancin' !  Ye'll  be  there  'fore  many 
years,  breakin'  all  the  young  officers'  hearts, 

290 


Old   />///'*   .\irkirnnl   X 


same's  nut  did  'fore  she  married  pa!"  The  de 
serted  gymnasium  loomed  dark  ami  forbidding 
across  the  bleak  road,  except  where  the  Hashing 
star!  iuli  i  struck  the  few  remaining  window- 
panes.  A  lonely  coyote  howled  mournfully,  his 
nose  uplifted  to  the  heavens.  "Hear  the  fiddles, 
chil'en?"  Hill  inquired.  ''Crowd  up  clost  to  me 
an'  ye'll  hear  an'  see.  'Money  Musk!'  as  I'm 
alive!"  He  jigged  rheumatically,  and  pressed 
Ills  face  eagerly  to  the  window.  "See  yer  pa, 
Bobbie?  Ain't  he  grand!  Now  scamper  back 
to  the  fire,  all  o'  ye!" 

The  old  man  rambled  on.  Now  he  lifted  one 
visionary  form  to  his  knee  as  he  sat  in  his  rick 
ety  chair,  then  another.  He  told  stories;  he 
(hided  one  for  crowding  and  stroked  the  curls 
of  a  shadowy  form  as  his  fancies  prompted.  He 
folded  the  buffalo  coat,  and,  thinking  that  it  was 
the  baby,  laid  it  on  his  narrow  bed  and  tucked 
the  worn  army  blanket  tenderly  around  it.  He 
wandered  restlessly  from  the  stove  to  the  win 
dow  ;  from  the  door  to  the  cot,  and,  as  the  night 
\\nre  on,  he  again  slept,  with  hands  stretched 
toward  the  empty  stove.  A  timber  wolfs  cry 
woke  him,  and  he  rose  stiffly. 

"I  know,  Bobbie,  I  know  !  Yes,  it's  cold.  1 
mus'  liven  ye  up.  Henry,  tuck  in  the  baby. 
Hark!  How  plain  we  c'n  hear  them  fiddles! 
They're  plavin'  '//o/y/r  N//v  r/  Home!'  That's  al 
ways  the  las'  wait/  —  hear  it?  'There's  no-o  place 
like  ho-o-me!"  He  sung  the  line  with  quaver 
ing,  broken  tones.  "Now,  les'  have  our  drill! 
We've  been  dre'ffly  slow.  Don't  make  much 

201 


Tillicum  Tales 

noise,  boys,  or  ye'll  wake  the  baby!"  The  wind 
shrieked  as  it  swept  around  the  corner  of  the 
building,  and  Old  Bill  frowned..  "There,  you've 
woke  her!  Quit  yer  cryin',  baby,  an'  I'll  hoi'  ye 
while  the  res'  drill;  an'  ye  can  be  a  part  o'  the 
awkward  squad."  He  straightened  himself  with 
painful  effort. 

"Squad!"  he  said,  in  a  clear,  full  voice,  "At 
tention  !  Fours  right !  March !"  The  order  was 
given  commandingly.  The  numbness  of  cold,  the 
stiffness  of  age,  the  quaver  of  palsy,  were  gone. 
Once  more  Old  Bill  was  young,  drilling  his  lit 
tle  company  of  children — long  since  grown  to 
man-and  womanhood. 

"Squad,  halt !  About  face !  Forward,  march! 
Bobbie,  the  guide  is  right!  Squad,  halt!  Yer 
feet's  cold,  d'ye  say,  Henry?  So's  mine!  John 
Hancock,  don't  ye  step  on  Clara's  heels  agin! 
Eight,  dress!  Front,  right  face!  You,  Angel 
Child,  ye've  faced  wrong !  P'raps  ye're  too  young 
to  know  right  from  left.  I'll  show  ye." 

Sleighbells  sounded ;  but  he  did  not  heed.  A 
rap  came,  but  he  heard  it  not.  The  door  opened, 
this  time  by  human  hands,  and  a  man  in  a  long 
military  cloak  looked  expectantly  into  the  ward, 
lighted  only  by  the  star  and  frost-gleam.  The 
moon  had  set.  The  candle  had  burned  out,  The 
fire  was  long  dead. 

"And  this  is  Old  Bill !"  began  the  new-comer, 
heartily,  as  he  saw  the  dim  outline  of  the  lonely 
figure.  But  the  storekeeper,  behind,  pulled  him 
back,  hastily.  He  whispered,  cautiously: 

292 


Old  Bill's  Awkward  Squad 

"Hadn't  we  best  not  be  too  abrupt,  Captain? 
The  old  man's  imaginin'  somethin'.  I'm  'feared 
'f  we  speak  too  sudden,  an'  he  sees  who  ye  are 
(to  think  little  Bobbie's  grown  to  this — so  like 
his  father!)  he'll  not  only  be  doty,  but  he'll  sta/y 
so,  which  he  ain't  all  the  time  now." 

"You're  right!"  assented  the  captain,  taking 
the  hand  of  a  small  boy  in  his  and  stepping  just 
inside  the  door.  The  child,  with  wide  eyes,  look 
ed  around,  curious  and  not  a  little  afraid  of  the 
gloom. 

"Yes,  that's  Old  Bill,  Bobbie,"  the  Captain 
answered  his  son's  whispered  question,  "of  whom 
mama  and  grandma  have  told  you  so  often.  By 
jove!"  he  turned  to  the  trader,  "Bill  thinks  that 
he's  drilling  his  old  awkward  squad!  Listen  to 
his  commands!  Poor  old  fellow!  I  don't  see 
how  we  got  the  notion  that  he  was  dead.  Clara 
heard  something  of  this,  somehow;  and  nothing 
would  do  but  we  should  stop  to-night  to  inquire, 
although  we're  hurrying  on  special  orders  to 
Washington.  I've  just  returned  from  five  years 
in  the  Philippines,  you  know,"  he  explained, 
parenthetically. 

"Yer  wife  ain't  changed  a  mite,  sense  she 
was  here,"  put  in  the  storekeeper. 

"Clara  wanted  to  come  in  the  sleigh,  too,  but 
I  persuaded  her  fo  stay  in  the  car  while  the  regu 
lar  passed  us  here." 

In  the  meantime,  Old  Bill  had  been  going  on 
with  his  drill.  The  whole  scene  had  taken  but 
a  few  seconds.  The  Captain  felt  that  he  could 

293 


TiUicuni  Tales 

look  no  longer.  Action !  He  was  too  much  like 
his  father  to  await  events. 

"I've  got  to  do  something!"  he  exclaimed, 
his  eyes  moist.  "It's  too  pitiful.  I'm  so  glad 
that  we  inquired!  I'll  see  that  he's  looked 
after —  Say !  I  know  how  we'll  rouse  him  with 
out  danger.  Bobbie,  old  boy,  Old  Bill's  playing 
that  he's  drilling  mama  and  me,  just  as  he  used 
to.  Don't  you  want  to  fall  in  and  do  as  he  says, 
as  you  have  so  often  played  with  me?" 

The  upright  little  figure  took  a  step  forward, 
as  Old  Bill  called  out  to  his  shadowy  awkward 
squad : 

"Mark  time,  march!"  Bobbie  fell  in  as  a 
dancer  catches  the  swing  of  a  waltz.  Bill's  foot 
beat  time  heavily.  With  the  gravity  of  half-fear, 
little  Bobbie  held  his  form  erect,  rigid. 

"It's  tragic !"  whispered  the  captain.  "Just 
so  we  followed  Bill's  every  move !  How  gray  his 
face  is!  Bobbie,"  he  whispered,  "tell  Old  Bill 
you're  tired." 

"I'm  sure  a-goin'  to  stop  this  torn-foolish 
ness!"  broke  out  the  trader,  forgetting  his  pre 
vious  caution.  "I  can't  stand  for  it  no  longer! 
I  had  no  idee  he  was  a-freezin'  down  here!  I 
can't  never  forgive  myself!"  He  spoke  louder 
than  lie  thought. 

"I'm  tired,  Bill,"  said  little  Bobbie. 

"Tired?  All  right,  we'll  stop.  Why!"  he 
looked  at  the  men  in  the  door,  "there's  yer  pa. 
So  the  hop's  over,  Colonel?  Jes'  watch  'em  drill 
a  minute — it'll  s'prise  ye,  how  well  they  do!  No\v 
chiPen,  fall  in,  fer  the  las'  time!  Squad,  atten- 

294 


Old    7>//r.v   Airlciriinl   S 


tion!  Forward,  nutrrli!  <  Juide  right!  To  the 
rear,  march!  Squad,  halt!  About  face!  Rest!" 
As  the  closing  order  was  given  Old  Hill  stag 
gered  and  rubbed  his  chilled  hands.  "The  squad's 
improvin',  Colonel:"  Captain  Bobbie  nodded. 
Words  came  hard  just  then.  "Tell  Old  Hill,  Bob 
bie,  that  he's  to  come  with  us/'  he  whispered. 
"Tell  him  that  mama  and  grandma  waul  him  to 
come."  The  lad  stepped  to  the  veteran's  side. 

"Hill,"  he  be^an,  timidly.  Bill  looked  at 
small  Bobbie  and  around  the  room.  His  head 
began  to  shake,  and  memory  revived.  He  was 
dazed,  irresolute. 

"Where's  the  res'  o'  the  awkward  squad,  Bob 
bie?  I  thought  —  I  thought— 

The  child's  soft  voice  interrupted,  and  he 
pluckily  repeated  what  his  father  had  suggested. 

"What's  thai?"  asked  Old  Bill,  half  compre 
hending.  "Ho  home  with  you?  To  live?  Don't 
ye  live  h"i  The  past  and  the  present  were 

irrevocably  mingled.  "No,  I  remember,  ye  went 
away  long  ago.  I  can't  leave.  What'd  the 
Colonel's  lady  say  if  I  deserted?" 

The*  Colonel's  grandchild  stood  at  a  loss  for 
word*,  but  nulled  at  the  faded  sleeve  of  blue. 
Th"  Cn'onel's  son,  Captain  Bobbie,  put  in  per 
suasively: 

"What  if  the  Colonel's  lady  sent  for  you?" 

"Did  she?"      The  old   man  was  stern. 

"If  grandma  knew  that  you  were  here,  cold 
and  lonely,  she'd  come  for  you  herself,"  cried 
little  Bobbie,  bursting  into  tears.  "Oh  Bill, 
please  come!" 


Tillicum  Tales 

Old  Bill  hesitated,  then  he  lifted  his  head 
feebly,  shook  back  his  thin  white  hair,  took  little 
Bobbie's  hand  and  walked  toward  the  waiting 
men. 

"All  right,  Bobbie!  >F  the  Colonel's  lady  's 
sent  fer  me — I'll  go.  Why,  Colonel,"  he  inter 
rupted  himself,  with  a  look  beyond  and  above  his 
hearers  at  a  vision  that  made  him  give  for  the 
last  time  the  old  salute,  "have — you — come — fer 
—me?" 


296 


The  Burglar's  Dilemma 

BY 
WILLIAM  DOUGLAS  JOHNS 


The  Burglar's 
Dilemma 


This  satire  is  dedicated  to  the  Seattle  Writers'  Club 
and  directed  toward  the  great  reading  public  who  view 
and  criticise  literature  from  their  individual  and  conven 
tional  ideas  of  what  Life  should  be — not  as  it  really  is. 

HAT'S  the  matter,  Joe?"  said  I.  "Out 
with  it.  Maybe  I  can  help  you.  You 
fcnmv  I'm  safe." 

Joe  looked  around  as  a  matter  of  habit  before 
lie  answered  ;  though  we  were  in  a  cozy  back  room 
in  a  quiet  part  of  town,  that  the  police,  even, 
had  never  dropped  on  to.  And  then  he  said : 

"I  wern't  goin'  to  say  anythin'  about  it,  Bill, 
but  bein'  as  yer  were  a  college  sharp  afore  you 
took  to  burglin'  and  has  come  up  from  the  bot 
tom  to  be  the  envy  of  the  perfesh,  perhaps  you 
kin  give  me  some  help  out  'n  your  wide  experi 
ence." 

"Out  with  it,"  said  I. 

"Well,"  says  Joe,  "vou  see  I  belongs  to  a  Bur 
glars'  Club." 

"What!"  said  I,  nearly  jumping  out  of  my 
chair,  "a  Burglars'  Club!"  and  I  looked  at  Joe  a 
trifle  dubiously.  He  had  been  acting  queer, 
lately. 

1'!)!) 


Tiltioum  Tales 

"Well,  it's  this  way,"  said  Joe,  "it's  a  new 
thing." 

("I  should  say  so,"  said  I) — "and  I  was  inter- 
juiced  a  while  back  by  a  friend ;  it's  composed  of 
professionals  and  comin'  ametoors  who  wants  to 
increase  their  knowledge  o'  burglin'  as  a  profes 
sion  and  likewise  the  profits  of  the  same;  least 
ways  that's  wot  he  told  me;  and  I've  attended 
several  mee tin's. 

"At  each  meetin' — which  is  held  reglar  once 
every  two  weeks,  'ceptin'  when  some  of  the  leadin' 
members  has  pressin'  engagements  they  can't  es 
cape  from,  or  bail  ain't  a-comin' — some  member 
tells  o'  some  job  he  done — how  he  done  it — and, 
if  he's  so  minded,  how  much  swag  he  got  and 
what  he  done  with  it.  Then  every  one  tells 
what  he  thinks  o'  the  job — how  it  could  'a  been 
done  better  and  how  they'd  a'  done  it.  You  see 
that's  wot  it's  done  for — to  make  'em  all  wise." 

"Well,  I'm  dashed,"  said  I,  "how  does  it 
work?" 

"That's  wot's  a  worryin'  me,"  said  Joe ;  "you 
see  there's  some  on  'em  that  does  their  jobs  pretty 
much  alike,  and  they  jumps  on  any  one  as  does 
his'n  different.  There's  Reckless  Tom — you 
know  when  he  sees  anythin'  that  looks  good  to 
him  he'll  go  after  it  in  a  hurry  and  mostly  lands 
the  stuff. 

"He  was  going  by  a  house  not  long  back,  in 
the  evenin'  an'  seein'  it  had  a  deserted  look — 
you  know  a  feller  can  smell  them  things  some 
times — gave  a  look  around,  saw  nuthin'  alarm- 
in',  walked  up  to  the  door,  tried  it  and  walked 

300 


The  Burglar's  Dilemma 

right  in.  Takin'  a  bit  o'  candle  he  had  in  his 
pocket,  he  lit  it,  shaded  it  with  a  brass  bowl  in 
the  brickerbrack  and  started  exploring  findin' 
the  people  must  ha'  left  in  a  rush,  fur  a  lot  o' 
close  was  scattered  about. 

"He  noses  aroun'  and  finds  a  lot  of  vallyble 
joolry  hidden  away  and  some  other  stuff.  He 
cleans  it  up  and  walks  out.  It  looks  queer  to 
him,  but  he  axes  no  questions  in  the  neighbor 
hood — just  makes  his  gitaway  good. 

"And  what  do  you  think — they  jumps  on  him 
hard  when  he  tells  of  it.  'That  was  no  profes 
sional  work  at  all' — 'he  hadn't  piped  off  the 
house' — 'had  no  idea  of  it  before  he  went  in' — 'he 
orter  had  a  lookout  to  give  him  warnin'  in  case 
o'  trouble' — '  he  hadn't  no  dark  lantern' — 'nor  a 
jimmy.'  It  just  makes  me  weary  to  think  o'  all 
they  said  he  orter  a'  done  to  a'  done  it  right ;  and 
Mm  a'  gettvn'  auxiy  with  the  swag! — a  bunch 
that'll  keep  him  a-goin'  fur  quite  a  time. 

"Then  Smooth  Sam,  he  tells  how  one  of  the 
housemaids  who  he  keeps  a-stringin'  tells  him  o' 
a  woman  that  had  a  lot  of  joolry  that  she  thought 
so  much  of  she  kep'  it  in  her  bedroom  with  her 
nights;  seemed  like  she  couldn't  be  away  from  it 
and  woke  up  nights  to  look  at  it.  Seems  that 
some  of  it  was  bought  fer  her  by  a  lover  who 
went  to  South  Ameriky  to  make  his  fortoon  and 
died  afore  he  could  come  home ;  this  was  sent  her 
'cordin'  to  his  direckshuns.  Her  housemaid  had 
told  Smooth  Sam's  mash  all  about  it;  and  only 
two 'servants  in  the  house.  O'  course  Sam  gets 
acquainted  with  the  maid,  lets  on  he's  goin'  to 

301 


TilUcum  Talcs 

marry  her  and  finds  out  the  whole  plant.  He 
makes  a  key  to  the  back  door,  from  the  one  his 
mash  uses — stays  late  one  night  and  slips  into  a 
back  entry,  instead  o'  goin'  home  and  arter  she's 
asleep,  unlocks  the  door,  goes  up  stairs  and  hears 
the  lady  talk  in'  to  her  jools,  and  how  she  loved 
the  man  what  bought  'em  for  her,  and  how  the}7 
was  such  a  comfort,  as  they  showed  he  was  dead 
stuck  on  her,  too. 

"When  she  went  to  sleep,  he  jes  goes  in  and 
picks  'em  up — no  trouble  at  all — and  makes  an 
easy  gitaway;  there  was  a  good  bunch  o'  money, 
too.  Did  he  get  the  glad  hand — not  much!  They 
ripped  him  up  and  down  and  sideways.  Same 
old  howl — 'twarn't  according  to  rooles. 

"But  that  warn't  the  worst.  One  feller  that 
has  a  wife  and  kids  and  goes  to  meetin'  and  al 
ways  gives  somethin'  outen  every  haul  to  the 
church,  gave  it  to  him  hard  fur  takin'  the  jools 
that  \vur  sent  her  by  her  dead  lover,  and  fur 
spendin'  it  scandlous;  for  Sam,  you  know,  gets 
gay  when  he  can,  an'  he  takes  a  pal  and  their 
two  girls  and  makes  a  lively  trip  to  New  Orleans 
and  takes  in  the  Mardy  Grass.  Think  o'  that 
talk  in  our  profesh ! 

"An'  another  guy  that  is  gone  on  a  girl  what's 
givin'  him  de  double  cross  for  a  bartender — tho' 
he  don't  know  it — hands  him  a  solar  plexus  for 
deceivin'  the  housemaid  an'  play  in'  on  her  affec 
tions.  Wot's  the  deceivin'  o'  housemaids  got  to 
do  with  makin'  burglin'  a  go,  I'd  like  to  know? 

"Honest,  Bill,  it  keeps  me  guessin'  as  to  where 
some  o'  them  mutts  has  been  a  hidin'  therselves 

302 


Tin-   Hnriitnr'x   /)ilrmnni 


from  i  he  world,  since  they  cut  loose  from  their 
mummies.  Think  o'  'em  gixin'  that  kind  o'  talk 
\\Vn  all  xv  e  gets  out  <>'  life  is  the  gay  times  we 
have  w'en  we  make  a  raise!  And  this,  w'en  the 
club  is  fur  givin'  new  members  a  straight  lip  as 
ter  the  best  way  o'  burglin'  and  gettin'  away 
with  the  stuit'  —  which  is  the  proof  of  a  fellers 
makin'  good. 

"Now  wot's  a  worryin'  me  is  what  I'm  a-goiu' 
to  do,  for  its  my  time,  soon,  to  give  'em  a  spiel— 
you  know  Hill,  I'm  a  little  quick  act-in'  some 
times,  and  when  some  one  onexpectedly  gets  in 
my  way,  they  sometimes  meets  xvith  an  accident; 
it's  all  in  the  business,  you  know  —  you've  been 
there,  I'm  told  —  now,  I'm  askirf  no  questions 
Mill  —  just  inentionin'  it  to  show  you  I  feel  you 
can  understand  how  things  are.  Well,  if  I  was 
to  tell  any  little  thing  like  that,  they  would  some 
on  'em  have  a  fit,  instead  o'  pointin'  out  how  I 
could  a'  done  a  slicker  job.  It  ain't  right  and  I 
don't  know  what  to  do.  If  I  go  an'  try  to  do  a 
job  their  way  instid  o'  my  own,  I'm  dead  sure  to 
get  pinched,  and  if  I  tell  them  my  way  o'  doin' 
they  wrill  pound  me  up  had. 

"Now,  you  have  a  long  head  on  yer  shoulders, 
Bill,  and  mavbe  vou  can  tell  me  how  to  climb 
out." 

"Quit  them,"  said  I,  "they  are  running  in  a 
groove,  and  don't  know  a  thing  out  of  their  spe 
cial  lines." 

"Oh!  but  they  do,  some  on  'em,"  said  Joe. 
"They're  a  bright  bunch  in  lots  o'  ways;  but 
you're  right  about  their  runniif  in  the  short 

303 


Tilllcum  Tales 

track  an'  never  gittin'  by  the  grand  stand.  Then 
I  like  'em,"  said  Joe,  "an'  I  like  to  hear  'em ;  it's 
enlighten'in'  in  some  ways.  What  I  wants  to 
know  is,  how  to  play  their  game  without  gettin' 
the  worst  of  it." 

"Well,  Joe,"  said  I,  "it's  a  hard  one  to  crack. 
I  don't  want  to  see  you  get  into  trouble,  and  I  see 
it  coming  both  ways.  You  must  not  get  pinched, 
and  about  the  hardest  thing  I  know  of  is  to  edu 
cate  people  out  of  something  they  are  dead  stuck 
on  and  think  they  know  all  about.  I  hardly 
know  what  to  advise  you,  old  man."  We  smoked 
awhile  in  silence,  drinking  our  beer  and  think 
ing  it  over. 

"Don't  they  know  any  better,  Joe,  or  are  they 
just  talking  because  they  don't  want  to  go 
against  the  crowd  for  fear  they  will  think  they 
don't  have  the  right  hunch?" 

"Blow  me,  if  I  know,"  said  Joe.  "Some 
times  I  think  they  don't  come  out  and  stand  by 
burglin'  as  it  is,  as  they  'ot  to,  an'  then,  agin, 
they  seem  too  straight  for  anythin'  like  that." 

"Don't  they  know  anything  about  the  big 
guns  and  the  way  they  do  their  jobs,"  said  I. 

"That's  it,"  said  Joe,  "they  must  have  heard 
ev'n  if  they  don't  know  'em.  A  bright  bunch 
like  that  and  not  know  wot's  agoin'  on;  sure  they 
must.  And  them  a  meetin'  to  improve  their 
burglin'  an'  a  cuttin'  the  real  thing  when  there's 
somebody  hurt,  or  a  guy  tumbles  to  a  new  rig,  or 
raisin'  a  howl  w'en  a  feller  spends  his  money 
fer  things  he  sure  wants.  Wy,  there  wouldn't  be 
no  life  'er  joy  in  the  perfession  at  all,  if  some  on 

304 


The  llui'tlar's  Dilemma 


'cm  had  their  way:  Wy  some  on  'em  seems  to 
think  thai  it'  they  gives  up  part  of  the  swag  to 
the  church  it  squares  the  whole  thing;  makes  all 
they  done  before  O.  K.  ;  seems  to  really  believe  it. 
I'd  hate  to  go  before  the  Big  Judge  wid  that  talk 
—I  sure  would." 

"Human  nature  is  a  queer  thing,  Joe,"  said 
I,  "and  its  inconsistencies  are  like  turtles'  tails 
—the  turtle  can  never  see  them." 

"Lucky  thing  for  'em,"  growled  Joe,  "some 
on  'em  ain't  hansum." 

"But  they  help  make  fine  soup  in  the  hands 
of  a  good  cook,  Joe." 

••Maybe,"  said  Joe,  "but  yer  gettin'  away  from 
me;  yer  always  do  w'en  yer  commence  preach  in'; 
a  lift  is  what  I'm  lookin'  for. 

"But  I  know  what  I'm  a-goin'  to  do.  I'm  a- 
goin'  to  give  'em  the  straight  tip  on  some  kinds 
o'  burglin'  that  they  don't  seem  to  know  about, 
or  if  they  do,  don't  seem  to  think  ought  to  be  told 
of.  Burglin'  is  burglin'  and  if  we  are  goin'  to 
si  mly  it,  we  want  to  study  it  as  it's  done,  and  not 
as  some  o'  'em  thinks  it  orter  be.  We  ain't  no 
Sunday  school." 

"Stand  by  it,  Joe,"  said  I.  "They  ran't 
more  than  skin  you  and  you  will  know  more  after 
it's  over." 

I  am  waiting  with  much  curiosity  to  hear 
from  Joe  after  he  gives  them  the  "straight  tip." 
If  I  had  not  been  advised  that  strict  seclusion  is 
necessary  at  this  time  for  my  health,  I  would 
like  to  attend.  I  have  an  idea  the  meeting  thai 

305 


Tillicum  Tales 

night  will  be  interesting.  They  won't  "squeal" 
on  him,  because  of  the  way  he  does  business — 
that  wouldn't  be  professional — but  after  they 
give  him  the  hot  mit  for  his  methods  they  may 
give  him  the  marble  hand  and  the  icy  stare  on 
account  of  his  morals.  This  is  a  strange  world, 
gentlemen.  I'd  like  to  be  there. 


306 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below, 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


E6/an'59DF 

RECTO  LO> 

DEC  -8  1958 

»«'58                            UriS^gSU. 

YB  398GO 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  UBRARY 


